


A Game of Glass and Shadows

by KarateSven, Ryzaphelle



Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, the au everyone needed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-21 10:16:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 40,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9543335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KarateSven/pseuds/KarateSven, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryzaphelle/pseuds/Ryzaphelle
Summary: A Queen of Darkness, Celaena Sardothien has learned to live her life with a "kill or be killed" ideology. When the Crown Prince of the ruthless empire she so despises offers her a deal, it's one that really puts her skills as an assassin to the test.Now Celaena can end the empire and receive enough gold to last her until she retires. However, opposing forces strive to make her life difficult, and it seems this job wasn't quite so simple after all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> After a bout of inspiration from our Salt Squad group chat, we decided to rewrite ToG to our own standards. That meant it would be gayer, more diverse, and would suggest darker themes with more respect.  
> Within three days we wrote the first six chapters and they are being posted all at once, after then there is no definite schedule for posting so keep your eyes peeled.  
> Enjoy~

The manor was silent.

Shadows twisted and writhed in the dance of the night, and the only light that cut through the darkness was the shine of the half-moon. A shadow passed in front of the window and the fastenings came undone to let the figure through. It skulked into the living room, dancing between tables and couches.

The residents of the manor had retired to bed a couple of hours before, the serving staff a half hour later. The dogs, great beasts with pointed ears, were fast asleep too - yet the figure cloaked in night tiptoed around them nonetheless. The silhouette crept up the stairs, feet light as not to let the floorboards creak, and haunted the halls. At the first door, the shadow peaked through a crack to see a little girl curled up in amongst a dozen blankets.

The shadow’s breath caught for a moment, knowing that - when the morning came - this girl would become an orphan. It continued its search anyway, looking from room to room until it reached its destination.

The master bedroom was vast. Blue and silver silks were draped over the floor to ceiling windows and only allowed a crack of moonlight through. However, this sliver of light was enough for the shadow to complete the task it had been paid for. It slipped a dagger from beneath its dark cloak, the blade invisible save for the reflection of light on its surface. Creeping slowly towards the bed, the shadow assessed the couple asleep between the sheets. The shadow did not know nor care who they were, it could not see beyond the large number written on the contract it had been given.

So the shadow slashed at their throats, the only noises were the strangled gurgles of blood spilling from their necks as the assassin looked on. It stood well away, careful of the spray and waited for their blood to stop pumping before approaching the bed again. To make sure that they were truly dead, the shadow sunk its dagger into their skulls, one at a time.

Now that the shadow was confident that their victims were deceased, it slunk away back into the night.

~

The Withering District was both the poorest part of the city, and the richest. Its heart was the House of the Thieves, a commonplace of losing both wealth and life. Everyone knew it was impossible to come out of there a richman, but the citizens of the Withering District were prey to games of chance, hoping that they could one day trick the system. It was a hope that the House of Thieves took advantage of daily in order to keep their business thriving.

Beneath the gambling dens of the House was the sub-district where the creatures of daggers and rope were kept. Dark dealings were made here, contracts written that promised riches in exchange for a slit throat, maybe two.

A shadow passed through the doors of the gambling den and the guards standing watch didn’t bat an eye. Those who did notice the shadow, which were a fair few, ducked out of the way and kept their distance. The shadow could smell the fear leaking from their pores.

Towards the back of the House of Thieves were a set of grand double doors that the shadow disappeared behind. It then made its way down a vast set of stairs lit with cerulean crystals.

When the stairs finally opened up to a giant cavern, the shadow finally untied the mask from around her face, the scent of dank earth reaching her nose. It wasn’t an unpleasant smell, but it wasn’t particularly fragrant either, more so stale.

“Home sweet home,” she rasped as she cast her eyes over the cavernous space. Living spaces, stalls, and other such buildings had been carved from the dirt and stone the city stood upon, connected by rope bridges and limestone walkways. The sub-district, like the territory above, was poor but still reflected the wealth of the House of Thieves. After all, the gambling dens supplied the income to run this place.

The shadow continued on across the roads and between the dwellings of fellow assassins, until she came upon the richest building in the sub-district. Here lived the King of Assassins; Arobynn Hamel. A guard outside Hamel’s keep opened the door for the shadow and she stepped in. When the door shut behind her, Celaena Sardothien unclasped her cloak and hung it on the coat rack to her left. She then dumped all her blades into the bin beside it, leaving one small dagger in her boot, however futile it looked.

She put on her best swagger as she waltzed the halls of the manor, passing other assassins who marked her presence with sneers and double takes. Celaena wove her way down passages and up staircases until she reached Hamel’s study. This was where the assassin spent most of his time, dealing contracts and counting his money. For Celaena, it was the most she had seen of Hamel’s personal life.

When Celaena knocked on the door, the usual routine of knocking two or three times before Hamel answered with a “Come in,” was initiated. She opened the door and stepped through, her eyes immediately falling to the middle-aged man sat at the desk. Bags of money occupied a third of the desk space as Hamel scribbled on a piece of parchment. He did not look up as Celaena approached quietly despite her hostile prowess, and her eyes roamed the study in the time it took Arobynn to acknowledge her presence.

The room could be described as lavish with the dark oak floors and rich red walls, borders of gold lined each wall and various paintings hung in gilded frames. Celaena often debated whether the paintings were real or not - if they were, were they paid for or stolen? Arobynn was too complex to decide on one plausibility.

Finally, Hamel’s eyes rose from his work and found Celaena standing before the large desk. “Has the Windsor job been taken care of?” he merely asked, silvery eyes telling of his boredom.

“Yes,” Celaena replied simply, adding no more detail.

“Good,” the older man said, “Payment will be received tomorrow.” He went back to his work. Another wave of silence began.

Celaena shifted where she stood, this type of interaction was normal for the two. “Will that be all?” she asked monotonously.

“No,” Arobynn surprised his student in saying. He pointed with his quill to a spot behind Celaena then continued inscribing. “You have another commission.”

The younger assassin stood still for a moment. She hadn’t sensed anyone else in the room, who had gotten past her like that? More importantly, how could she hide her identity? Only those dwelling in the sub-district could put a face to the name Celaena Sardothien. If only she’d kept her mask on.

With a sigh, Celaena sucked it up and turned around.

“Ugh, it’s you,” she blurted when her eyes fell to the young man sat in the corner. He lounged in the loveseat beside the bookcase, right leg swung casually over the left, his elbow propped up against the arm of the chair, and his chin in his hand. His dark sapphire eyes twinkled like the night sky as his gaze met hers, they sparked in recognition.

“It’s lovely to see you again, my dear. It’s been too long,” Dorian Havilliard, the Crown Prince of Adarlan greeted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're really excited to continue with this series and we hoped you really enjoyed this chapter, there are SO many to come~
> 
> If you guys ever want to you can come yell at us on tumblr @shadehunters and @ryzaphelle
> 
> Thanks  
> Rae and Kyra


	2. Chapter 2

“This is a joke right?” Celaena asked Arobynn, not bothering to hide her irritation. “Why is some high born prat sitting in this keep?”

“I’d watch my mouth if I were you,” the Prince said, his eyes flashing angrily.

Celaena turned slowly toward him, and carefully looked him up and down, noting his finely woven cloak and polished leather boots. “You’re in my territory Princeling,” she said coolly, “the rules are different here.”

“Both of you be quiet,” Arobynn warned quietly, his voice hardening with the promise of a threat. Celaena and the Prince both snapped their mouths closed.

The Master Assassin scribbled a few more things onto his parchment before setting his quill down and snapping the leather book closed. Sitting back in his chair, he gazed at the two people before him in disinterested silence, his gray eyes sweeping over them silently. He steepled his hands together over his desk as his gaze landed on Celaena, boring into her own turquoise eyes.

“The Prince has a job for you,” Arobynn said finally. “A well paying one at that. Tell her about it Prince.” He inclined his head at the young man and then waved his hand at them. A dismissal. Celaena looked at the Prince before turning on her heel and leaving through the door.

She marched past the commissioned portraits hanging on the walls and various doorways before stopping before a doorway. Wordlessly, she turned the knob and led the Prince inside, shutting and locking it behind her.

Prince Dorian looked around the room; it was relatively bare save for the round table and four chairs set up around it. Celaena unclasped her thick leather armor and dropped it onto the nearest chair and sat down, propping her feet up on the table.

“So what work do you have for me Prince?”

“Call me Dorian,” he said, sitting in the sat adjacent from her. “And the job I have for you is extremely important and requires the utmost discretion." The assassin didn’t say anything and instead raised a brown eyebrow, encouraging him to continue. Dorian cleared his throat, “the mark is someone of high rank.”

“How high?”

“Very high,” he placed his hands onto the table and gazed at her, “you cannot tell anyone  about what your mission is.”

“Arobynn will know,” she said, “he always does.”

Dorian shook his head, “not even he can know. It has to stay between us.”

Celaena frowned. “Arobynn is my master. What’s so damn special about this mark that he can’t know about?”

Dorian took a deep breath and looked around the room. His easygoing air was gone; he was on high alert and Celaena could tell that his eyes and ears were straining to hear of any spies or eavesdroppers. Finally, he pulled a folded piece of paper out of his cloak and slid it toward Celaena without saying a word. Slowly she unfolded the paper and read the name written. Then she read the name two more times just to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating.

“You’re joking.” Was all she said.

“I’m not.”

“Then you’re batshit.” Celaena said, sliding the paper back to him, “because someone would have to be insane to try and pull something like this.”

“I have a plan. I just need you to help me.” He in his voice. “I have it all figured-”

“No offense,” she said rising, “but I don’t trust any plans made by some silk-skinned prince who wants to play dungeon master. Find someone else.” She turned to leave and had her hand on the door before the prince spoke again.

“Debts need to be payed Sardothien.” She turned to look at him and his eyes were tired but also determined, like he was ready to go into battle. “I know what he did to Melisande, to Ellywe, to the Red Sands, to Terrasen.” He cocked his head as he studied her, “I know you must be afraid.”

Celaena stilled, her hand on the doorknob, and felt the warmth of her anger rise up through her stomach and wrap around her throat. She closed her eyes and remembered; she saw the flash of her neighbors smiles as they handed her a basket of fresh baked bread, her cousins braiding colorful clays beads into her thick braids, her mothers’ warm smile as she sang her to sleep. Then a burning village, piles of dead bodies, and the smell of metal and blood filling the air as everything she loved was taken from her. Celaena swallowed and pushed everything she felt below the surface, better to just not remember at all than be reminded of all that she's lost.

“You know  _ nothing _ .” Even she was surprised by the venom in her voice.

The Prince held up his hands and stared at her, his sapphire eyes glimmering with determination and desperation. “Then help me,” he said quietly, “help me stop him. Help me end this.”

Celaena studied him and felt the heat of her rage rise up and set her teeth on edge. It had been twelve years since the burnings but she still felt her pain like a brand on her heart, she had lost everything. The Prince was right; debts needed to be paid.

“How much are you paying me for this job?” She finally asked.

The Prince frowned, “you only care about the money?”

Celaena gave him a withering look, “money makes the world go ‘round your highness. I thought you of all people would understand that.”

Dorian pursed his lips before answering, “seventy-five hundred thousand in gold.” He stated evenly. Celaena’s eyes widened comically at the sum. It was almost too good to be true. She searched his eyes for deception, waiting for the sign that would tell her she was being played and that the palace guards would come storming in any second, but she found none. The Prince slowly stuck out his right hand.

“Done deal?” He asked.

Celaena gazed at him a moment more before she clasped his hand in her own and said, “deal is done.” The both of them stood up and made for the door. Dorian gripped the handle before turning back to the assassin.

“Meet me in Artson’s Square tomorrow at noon. We can discuss our plan there.”

Celaena nodded and felt a slow predatory smile turn the corners of her mouth, “Let’s go kill the King your Highness.”


	3. Chapter 3

Celaena sighed as she fell back onto her vast silk bed. She spread herself out over the sheets, the fabric smooth against her naked skin. For too long, she lay there on the bed, just thinking about the mammoth task before her, not even caring that the sheets were growing damp from her wet hair.

She’d had a bath as soon as she got in, a long one. She even treated herself to bubbles, oils, and candles - any excuse to stay in the bath - because she knew that when she got out, when the cold stale air hit her skin, it would be real.

She’d have to kill the king.

Celaena was still coming to terms with this fact as she continued to lay on her bed. It was a double with four posters and sheer curtains that fell from the supporting beams. Decorating her room was an explosion of colours. Deep reds, shiny golds, and crystal whites were the main features, occasionally disrupted by the elegant slash of black. These colours were the last ties to her heritage, she never told Arobynn as such but he was smart enough to piece together what her small apartment had become.

Turning her head, her gaze fell to the chest of drawers beyond the sheer golden curtains. The top-most drawer contained socks and underwear and, behind that, a small wooden box. It had been a while since Celaena had taken that box out and looked through its contents, a while since she had run her fingers over the sigil engraved on the lid; a crossed khopesh and spear circled with a ring of gold.

But she wasn’t going to take it out now. She was already overwhelmed by the prospect of personally killing the king, she couldn’t dwell on the past. Although, she was looking forward to seeing his royal majesty experiencing the same pain that he had inflicted on every land his armies touched.

Yes, his death will be slow.

Celaena’s lips curled into a smile at the thought.

For now though, she peeled herself from the bed and threw her towel on the rack in the bathroom. She then changed into a warm nightgown and went around the room, blowing out candles as she went. As she approached her bed, she left the candle on the nightstand burning but picked up the book resting against the dark wood. Getting into bed, she opened the book and began to read, flipping through the pages until her eyes grew heavy.

 

As the year drew to its end, the weather got colder and as Celaena shivered in her thick coat and leggings she wondered why she hadn’t gotten used to Adarlan’s freezing temperatures. She had been living here for the past twelve years after all.

Dorian was truly torturing her in holding this meeting outside. Maybe he still hadn’t gotten over the incident two years ago - no, Celaena was just being paranoid. Whether or not they’d decide to go inside, Celaena didn’t know. So she waited in the cold, watching a few children playing catch not too far away.

This was a richer part of Adarlan where most nobles and other such wealthy folk dwelled. It had better sewage systems, better businesses, and wasn’t clogged full of thieves and prostitutes like the Withering District. It was this aspect that made the area less wealthy than the latter district.

Still, the Lieu d’argent was very far from the Withering District and contained a vastly different culture altogether. Since Rifthold was home to many migrants from kingdoms the king had conquered, different districts and neighbourhoods reflected different colours, cultures, and etiquette. Unsurprisingly, Lieu d’argent was one of the many districts that belonged solely to the Adarlanians.

Celaena held in her disdainful gaze aimed at the children. It wasn’t their fault if they’d been born into a sniveling rich family that benefitted from the labour of slaves captured by the armies. No, she’d sneer at them for eventually becoming the same sniveling rich people their parents were.

The ball was lost from the group and came rolling towards Celaena sat shivering on the bench. Slowly, she picked it up and examined it as one of the children cautiously walked forward. He didn’t say much but there was the nervous flit of his eyes between Celaena’s face beneath her hood and the ball she held in her gloved hands. With a small smile, she offered the ball back to the boy and he took it in his tiny hands. He nodded his head in thanks before running away back to his friends.

Celaena was used to people, adults and children alike, running away from her. However, the look of terror in the child’s eyes still stung.

“It seems you’re their nightmares come to life,” a voice said from behind her.

Celaena sighed but did not turn as Dorian came around the bench to sit beside her. “I’m the nightmare of more than just eight year old boys,” she replied.

“Let’s hope that includes my father too,” he said, his gaze caught in the distance. Celaena could see why; Rifthold’s glass monstrosity was a constant presence, a reminder that there was no escape. It towered towards the sky, slashing at the clouds which suffocated the blue beneath.

When she finally turned to the prince, she saw that he no longer wore the finery of a crown prince but more so the clothes of a merchant living in the Lieu d’argent. He didn’t have nearly as many layers on as Celaena did and she envied him for not sticking out like a sore thumb as she did.

Still, they did not attract so much attention that would jeopardise this meeting. He started first, “The contract has been sent to your address at the House of Thieves. I suggest signing it or you can say goodbye to seventy-five hundred thousand gold.” Even as he said this with authority, there was a touch of desperation in his voice.

“Do not think that I haven’t carefully considered your commission, Princeling. I said yes last night and my answer remains the same,” Celaena fired back, her turquoise eyes sharpening to a glare.

He considered her for a moment, assessing her with those sapphire eyes. “I thought I told you call me Dorian.”

“On the contrary, I think it best that we keep this relationship purely professional,” she replied, babbling anything to get out of saying his name. The last time she’d called him Dorian was a moment she didn’t particularly want to remember, not when he was her only tie to a small fortune in gold. “Now, can we get to the point of this meeting?” she added impatiently.

She forced herself to meet his gaze and raised an eyebrow.

He leaned back in his seat and spread his arms over the back, his fingers but inches away from her. “You will accompany me to my home and pretend to be a noble from Eyllwe under the name Cleo Safyr. There you will have free reign of the castle and plenty of time to formulate a plan to kill my father,” he finished. “Sounds simple, does it not?”

Celaena’s face drew into a scowl. “You want me to pretend to be your harlot,” she stated. The role was not foreign to her, and she spoke again before the prince could make a snide comment. “Couldn’t I just pretend to be a servant or a maid?”

Dorian shook his head. “My father has kept the same servants with him for most of his reign and won’t allow any others to poke around in his personal chambers.”

“And in being your whore, I’ll be able to…” she prompted. “What?”

“Follow me around the castle like a lost puppy seeking attention, this’ll include my father’s chambers of course,” he replied with a smirk.

Celaena was losing her patience with this pampered brat.

“Besides,” he continued, “with me you’ll be able to experience all the luxuries of a noble, unlike anything you’ve experienced in that...hole...of yours.”

She forced out a breath before speaking. “I live quite luxuriously, thank you very much,” she shot back. “Are we done, princeling, or are you going to waste more of my time?”

He gave her a look of annoyance. “Meet me here again, this time tomorrow. Wear your nicest dress if you will.”

Celaena nodded her acknowledgement and, with a roll of her eyes, dismissed herself. Without so much as a goodbye, she disappeared into the general public.


	4. Chapter 4

Dorian leaned back on the bench and watched Celaena disappear into the crowd, her dark cloak swishing away with the clump of her boots. He looked around and gazed at the myriad of different faces of his subjects but he saw no immigrants. That was the problem with Lieu d’argent, its unspoken rule; that foreigners had no place here. It was the same problem throughout the other wealthier districts, something he wanted to fix. Dorian couldn’t help but laugh at the irony; even though the Prince had his mother’s copper skin and dark hair Adarlan still looked down on immigrants. 

His father had colonized almost an entire continent and the refugees had come flooding into Adarlan in the hopes of escaping the horrors of war, and his father answered their plight by sending them to the Withering District and to specific sectors of the city. Sectors that were poor and falling into disrepair. The King had turned a blind eye to the blatant segregation in favor of focusing on his conquests and tightening his hold on the other countries, in favour of tearing them apart more and more. He had to end it.

“Are you going to sit there all day?” an annoyed voice growled. Dorian shook himself out of his reverie to find Chaol Westfall, Captain of the Guard and his best friend, coming up to him from his position at the cafe table twenty feet away. He had his trademark scowl darkening his rugged face as he shifted uncomfortably in his civilian clothes. “Seriously, we should be going. People are starting to notice you.”

Indeed, people were stopping to stare as they spotted the prince, whispering and giggling to one another. Dorian gave them all charming smiles and waved at them serenely. “Of course they notice me Chaol, I’m the dashing and chivalrous Crown Prince of Adarlan. Frankly, I’d be offended if they didn’t.”

Chaol rolled his eyes, grabbed Dorian’s arm and hauled him to his feet. “You need to get back to the palace now,” he said pulling Dorian forward, “the Queen wants you to be in court today to talk to the suitors she’s invited.”

Dorian groaned, “I would really prefer not to.”

“Too bad,” Chaol said leading Dorian too their tied horses, “I’m under strict orders from both the Queen  _ and _ King.” Dorian clenched his jaw at that. “This little meeting with your assassin almost didn’t happen because of those orders.”

“You know with that tone of voice, I would think you didn’t like her,” he said smirking.

Chaol gave Dorian a withering look, “She’s a professional assassin, Dorian. Why  _ wouldn’t _ I object to you being around her?”

“You worry too much Chaol,” Dorian grunted as he pulled himself onto his black stallion.

Chaol hoisted himself up onto his own horse. “If I don’t worry, no one else will,” he said, urging his horse into a walk.

“Trust me, my friend,” Dorian said, reaching across and setting his hand on top of Chaol’s, stopping him from moving. “She has just as much riding on this plan as we do.”

Chaol sucked in a harsh breath and gripped Dorians fingers, “This has to work Dorian. Because if something happens to you-”

“Nothing will,” the Prince said, squeezing Chaol’s fingers. “We can do this.”

Chaol took a deep breath and pulled his hand away, urging his horse into a canter. “I really hope this works.”

Dorian encouraged his own horse forward behind Chaol. “For the sake of this kingdom, I hope it does too,” he said quietly.

 

~

  
Celaena wove her way through the crowds of people; dodging groups of heiresses on shopping trips, small children with sticky fingers, and butlers and maids carrying all of their employers’ merchandise. The sooner she got back to the Withering District the better. She never came here if she could help it, the Lieu d’Argent was far too posh and strict for her tastes. 

She walked past Sabson’s Bakery and turned down an alleyway, dashing past doorways and trash littering the cobblestones. A street urchin ran into her and tried to pull away before she gripped the back of his grimey shirt and looked into his eyes.

“Hand them over,” she said holding out a hand. The urchin hurriedly placed the coins back in her hand and Celaena released him.

Arobynn often kept well informed by paying off the street urchins and barkeeps to spy for him, listening and noting valuable information from the various people they served or robbed. Celaena might hate the Lieu d’Argent but the wealthy Adarlanians had a strict aversion to the homeless and the disenfranchised, which meant Arobynn didn’t know the intricacies of their plan. She finally crossed back into the Withering District and released a breath of relief.

She knew that if she really wanted to pull of this job then she would need outside help, preferably from connections she trusted. Celaena slipped through another alleyway and stopped outside the door of a small apartment building. She knocked twice and waited as she heard muffled swearing and banging. The door swung open to reveal a shirtless Emery Owen, his shoulder length black hair sticking up every which way. His eyes widened in surprise when he saw her.

“Celaena?” He asked, his mouth hanging open slightly. “What’re you doing here?”

“I’m looking for your ridiculous brother.” She said, pulling her cloak tighter around her as a cold wind blew through the alley. “How’re you only wearing pants right now?”

“I’m very hot,” he said confidently, puffing out his chest and waggling his eyebrows. Celaena rolled her eyes.

“You’re also a child who can get sick. Just tell me where Nox is and i’ll be out of your hair.” She huffed.

Emery pointed towards the street, “he’s at the Drunken Crow over there. He’s been there since seven o’clock.” Celaena nodded at him and then pulled the door closed so he didn’t lose any more heat in his apartment. Then she turned back the way she came and crossed the street and opened the door to the sleazy tavern.

Inside, it was dimly lit with the haze of cigar smoke and the smell of stew. Celaena looked around and noted that there were only a few people inside who were either making small talk at one of the tables or munching on hot stew by themselves. She caught movement in the corner of her eye and saw the bartender, a burly man with a shaved head, approach her.

“What can I get you girl?” He asked.

“Can you tell me where Nox Owen is?” She asked.

The bartender inclined his head at a man slumped over a table, still clutching an empty keg of ale. Celaena rolled her eyes and tossed a piece of silver at the bartender, “Then I’d like a cup of water, please.”

The bartender handed her the cup and then she was moving toward Nox while carefully avoiding the puddles of ale and various other liquids covering the uneven wooden floor. She came up to his side and poked his shoulder experimentally. In response, Nox groaned into his arm and pushed the keg of ale away.

“Can you let a man sleep in peace?” he griped, his words muffled by his thick coat. She kicked him in the shin and Nox jerked awake, a look of outrage contorting his features until his eyes fell on Celaena. “Oh,” he said, “I thought you were the bartender.”

“Do I look like a bartender?” she asked sarcastically as she sat down next to him, and grabbed his abandoned drink and slid the water towards him. “You look terrible.” His bronze skin lacked its usual glow and there were dark purple bags under his eyes.

Nox glowered at her, “Give me a break, I’m hungover.”

“You never drink on weekdays,” she observed, taking a swig of ale and hiding her surprise at how good it was. “What happened?”

Nox rubbed at his dark eyes and ran a hand through his short dark hair. “I got stood up.”

Celaena’s eyebrows rose, “Really?” Nox nodded solemnly and she added, “You want me to kill her for you?”

Nox scoffed, “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m fine with moping.”

“Well I’m not,” Celaena announced, setting the keg down on the table, “I’ve got a job for you, Nox.”

He perked up a little at that, “How much?”

“A lot,” she said, pulling him closer, “ten thousand in gold.”

“What?!” Nox jerked so hard he banged his knee on the table and Celaena clapped a hand over his mouth to keep him from spilling the details of her mission.

“Be quiet, idiot,” she hissed. She took her hand away but still kept him close as she whispered in his ear. “I can’t tell you who the mark is but I need you to keep eyes on the palace gates. Who goes in, who comes out, and if there are any patterns.”

Nox’s eyebrows rose in surprise, “The palace? What exactly are you planning, Sardothien.”

“I just told you I can’t tell you,” she said gripping his jacket tighter, “but this absolutely has to be discreet. No one can know we’re doing this. Don’t talk to anyone and be especially careful about where you discuss it, eyes and ears are everywhere in this district.”

“I’m always discreet,” he said, and it was true. Nox Owen was an accomplished jewel thief and a renowned escape artist. If anyone could act as eyes for her outside the palace then he was the best one to do it.

“So do you accept?” she asked.

Nox nodded, the crooked smile lighting up his former morose features. “Deal is done,” he said holding out his hand. Celaena grasped it and they shook.

“Good. Now I have another errand to run and it will be significantly harder than anything else I’ve done.”

Nox quirked a brow at her, “What is it?”

“I’m in need of a nice dress.”


	5. Chapter 5

Celaena spent the rest of the day visiting various seamstresses throughout the Withering District where they took her measurements and suggested different dresses in varying styles and colours. 

The last dress shop she walked into was a small space slotted into a row of other retailers. Despite its modest outside, the gown featured in the window was of deepest burgundy, its neckline riding low to showcase an ample bosom. The skirts seemed to go on forever and the neckline was decorated with faint golden leaves.

Celaena felt a smile bloom on her lips as she walked into the shop, a little bell ringing as the door opened. The place was quiet and empty, the only sound being the scuff of Celaena’s boots against the wooden floor. As she entered she took note of her surroundings, dark flooring and light wood walls only contrasted by the rainbow of gowns against the far left wall. A counter stood to her right but there was no one on it, a silver bell sat atop the surface along with a ledger and quill.

She eyed the bell before deciding to have a look by herself before a babbling ninny came about to dictate what she could and couldn’t wear. Celaena had had no such luck with the previous seamstresses as they made unnecessary comments about her skin, her weight, and her figure. One had stuffed her in a gown of bright yellow that showed so much of her breasts that she had experienced a sudden bout of insecurity at the thought of running around the palace in it.

Involuntarily groaning, she shoved the memory away and approached the rack of dresses, running her fingers over the different fabrics. She found a navy one with sleeves that cascaded like waterfalls, another was a pink one with delicate lace around the neckline. Her gaze fell on a violet gown with billowing chiffon sleeves, the skirts were so transparent that the hem was lost - blended with its surroundings. A thick, silver belt hugged at the waist and Celaena was instantly enchanted. Carefully, she removed the gown from the rack and held it up to her body.

“That one is too small for you,” a voice said out of nowhere.

Celaena’s eyes flicked up from where they had been previously gazing at the dress, to see a tall woman wearing a sneer. Probably pissed that Celaena was fiddling around with her merchandise, the woman stepped closer, assessing the assassin from head to toe.

“How can you tell?” Celaena countered, wondering why she hadn’t heard the woman appear from the back of the shop, and gestured at her thick cloak.

The lines of the woman’s face pulled tighter at the hint of venom in Celaena’s voice. “I have been working in this business for twenty years, miss, I  _ know _ when a dress does not fit.”

Swallowing her pride, Celaena returned the gown to the rack.

“Now, are you going to touch more of my merchandise with your grubby hands or do you want some professional help?” the woman sneered.

Celaena decided to work with the seamstress. She had learned that her name was Josephine and assured that she was  _ very  _ good at her job. Celaena had been led before a full-length mirror and stipped down to her shirt and trousers - even inside, she still shivered - where Josephine took her measurements and wandered around the room, taking gowns off racks and holding them up to her grumpy customer. From there, Josephine decided if they were worth trying on or not; those that passed her inspection were hung in one of the changing rooms.

Now in said changing room, Celaena stood in her underwear as she eyed the first dress on the rack. Josephine assisted her in getting it on but halfway through Celaena decided that orange just wasn’t her colour. This went on for a couple of hours; the trying on of different gowns only to realise that they didn’t suit her shape or height or skin tone. Sometimes Celaena just flat-out said no without even attempting to try it on. When the last gown was tried and discarded, Josephine was noticeably annoyed and Celaena was noticeably tired.

“I don’t know what it is with you,” Josephine was ranting now. “One moment the colour’s wrong, then it’s the fabric used, then it’s the style - why are you so gods-damn picky?” She paced around the room, frantically searching for one more dress that Celaena could try on, just so she could get her money and close up.

Celaena understood, she really did, she was just as tired as the older woman. But Celaena needed a dress by tomorrow and she wasn’t willing to crawl to Arobynn to ask for one. Not only would the King of Assassins take it as an opportunity to dress up his favourite doll but he’d also add it to the list of things that Celaena was indebted to him for.

Eyes wandering, Celaena looked out the shop window. It was truly late now. Most businesses were already closed or in the process of closing - nighttime was a dangerous time in the Withering District. This was no problem for Celaena, being a creature of darkness herself, but she worried ever so slightly for Josephine on her trek home. 

Ever so slightly.

At the sight of a shadowy figure in the window, Celaena jumped up and was instantly on guard. Then she relaxed when she realised that it was only the mannequin in the shop window.

An idea struck like lighting.

“What about that one?” Celaena enquired.

Josephine stopped her pacing, then followed Celaena’s gaze. “Take it,” she dismissed. “I don’t even know if it’ll fit but please,” she pleaded, “just get out of my shop.”

The assassin ended up paying more than the agreed price for the dress.

 

~

 

A knock sounded at the door.

Lysandra Ayris opened her bedroom door to find none other than Celaena Sardothien at her doorstep. She pursed her rouged lips. “What do you want?” she sighed.

“Look, I didn’t come here because I  _ wanted  _ to, okay? Turns out the women who  _ do  _ live down in the sub-district aren’t that great at what I need and it’s not like I  _ know  _ a lot of women anyway-”

Her patience was wearing thin. “Spit it out.”

Celaena glared at her before replying, “I need you to teach me how to make my hair look nice.” The assassin looked away.

Lysandra blinked, then blinked again, and a third time. “You’re not serious?” she asked, yet Celaena did not answer. “For the last year and a half, you’ve pretended that I don’t exist and you expect  _ me  _ to help  _ you _ ?”

The two girls stared at each other for a while. Lysandra had never seen anything so bold, not even from the men she dealt with daily. Here was Celaena Sardothien asking her childhood rival to style her hair.

She bit her lip to check that she wasn’t dreaming.

“Fine,” Celaena huffed. “Forget it.” She turned to leave but Lysandra reached out to grab her arm.

“Don’t shut me out again,” Lysandra pleaded, “and I’ll style your stupid hair.”

After what seemed like forever, Celaena nodded and Lysandra lead her into her room. Once the assassin took off her cloak, Lysandra sat her down at the vanity desk and took the brush that lay on the surface. Celaena studied her own reflection in the mirror as the courtesan ran the brush through her hair, her turquoise eyes flicked up when Lysandra started speaking.

“So what kind of job requires you to visit an old friend unannounced?” she asked.

“A secret one,” the assassin replied.

Lysandra paused her brushing and a small smile touched her lips at the tease. “And you can’t style your own hair?”

“Not really,” Celaena said, the tension slowly leaving her shoulders. “I haven’t had to look this pretty since...a couple of years ago.” Lysandra heard her breath hitch as she relived a memory.

“ _ Oh, _ ” Lysandra remembered. “Isn’t that when you slept with-”

Celaena made some sounds resembling a babbling baby as she hushed the other girl. “Don’t remind me,” she scowled.

The courtesan giggled as she finished brushing Celaena’s dark hair, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “So, what do you want me to do with you?” she asked the assassin.

Celaena was silent for a moment, it was a gesture Lysandra recognised when one was choosing their words carefully. “Give me a hairstyle that a Lady would have,” she relented, scrutinising her appearance.

Lysandra kept a mental file of the details Celaena revealed about her job. Not because she was spying for someone else, but for her own personal amusement. Despite the effort Celaena had gone through to cut Lysandra out of her life, it didn’t mean Lys had to do the same.

The courtesan played with Celaena’s hair for a bit before deciding on a direction to go. As she styled, she kept talking to her old friend, the other girl watching her movements.”So,” she started, “anything interesting happen while you avoided me?”

She knew she was being petty, but Lysandra wasn’t so easily forgiving. Since the two orbited the House of Thieves, Lys in the rooms upstairs and Celaena in the sub-district, it was hard to avoid each other without some ounce of conversation. Yet Celaena had managed it, had ruined their relationship just as it was setting off.

“Not much,” Celaena replied. “Eat, sleep, kill - it’s all I ever do.”

Lysandra tutted under her breath, it was a depressing cycle, but who was she to judge how a mourner got through the day? “Not so much now, though?” she asked. “I mean, if you’re getting all dressed up for a job then it must be breaking your usual murderous routine.”

“How do you know it’s not a temporary one?” Celaena said haughtily, sticking her nose in the air before smiling.

Lysandra put her hand on her hip and met her eyes in the mirror again. “If it was temporary then you wouldn’t gone to so much effort to style your hair,” she replied matter-of-factly.

She scrunched up her nose and stuck out her tongue. “Quit your snooping and brush my hair,” she snapped.

With a sigh, Lysandra tapped her friend on the head with her brush before continuing her work. A smile crept back again; oh, how she missed this - missed  _ her _ . It was great to have Celaena back again, however fleeting it could be.

 

~

 

When Lysandra had finished, the two girls admired her creation with smiles and glowing faces. Celaena wanted to stay longer but she knew she had to go back underground, so she promised the other woman that she would be back again - though she didn’t know when. She’d said goodbye to Lysandra and given her a short and awkward hug that Celaena hoped Lys would understand the meaning behind.

As Celaena left the upstairs of the House of Thieves and drifted downstairs to the sub-district, she felt guilty for shutting out the courtesan for so long. It wasn’t her fault that what happened  _ happened.  _ But Celaena had been distant with everyone since then.

When she finally got back to her small apartment in the sub-district, Celaena sat down at the vanity she hardly ever used and practiced the same routine of braiding and pinning that Lysandra had performed. She did it over and over again until she got it right and was certain that she could do the same tomorrow morning. 

Finally confident, Celaena sat back to inspect her masterpiece. It was a half-up, half-down style that left a majority of her hair falling down to her shoulder blades. The rest was braided around her crown which left ample room for a head-dress. Picking up a box that sat on her vanity, she opened it to reveal her 17th birthday present from Arobynn. Since then, she’d had no excuse to wear it. Now she did.

She placed the golden tiara atop her head and marvelled at how well it suited her.

That night, she went to bed feeling that little bit more confident about this job.


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning, Celaena had just finishing styling her hair when there was a knock at her door.

She opened it to find Arobynn waiting for her. He wore an emerald tunic and dark green pants that offset his shoulder length auburn hair. His silver earring glinted in the light as he regarded her curiously.

“I’ve never seen you style your hair like that.” He observed, folding his hands behind his back.

Celaena swallowed and forced her face and voice into neutrality. “I thought i’d try something new today.” She said, crossing her arms. She knew that Arobynn would try to glean clues about her job from anything she said or did, he’d guess at the tiniest changes and decisions she made. She knew that in order to get her money and pay for her freedom she had to keep him in the dark.

“Try something new? You want to look pretty before you murder someone?” he inquired, quirking his eyebrow.

Celaena took a deep breath before replying, “why do you care what my hair looks like?”

“Maybe you’d like to look nice for the Prince?” Arobynn wondered, his silver eyes flashing. “I’m sure he’d like that you put all that effort into looking like one of his common whores.”

Celaena fought the rage that bubbled up at his dig at both her and Lysandra. She might have separated herself from her friend but that didn’t mean she didn’t care about the courtesan. Arobynn knew she had a temper, and was trying his damndest to get her to snap and let something slip. She straightened and regarded the Master Assassin coolly.

“You said you would let me conduct my own affairs when I reached adulthood.”

“I did.”

“Then let me conduct my affairs,” she said, “I’ll get the job done soon enough.”

Arobynn regarded her silently, his silver eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he gazed at her. Finally he spoke, “Lysandra wears her hair in a similar fashion, yes?” He prodded, “How is she doing?”

“I assume she’s fine,” Celaena snapped. She fought desperately to keep her anger under control but her temper was starting to get the better of her. It was one of her many weaknesses.

Arobynn noticed the slip and smiled serenely at her and Celaena felt cold dread roll through her stomach. “Well then, perhaps I should pay her a visit.” 

“Don’t bother, Arobynn,” Celaena said, reigning in her temper, “there are plenty of prettier courtesans for you to pick from.”

“True,” he said, rubbing his chin in contemplation. “But I like her services the best.” His smile was amicable but his eyes were triumphant and mocking. “I’ll go the House this evening in fact.”

Celaena’s fingers twitched with the urge to wrap them around his neck, but she fought against the impulse. Lysandra was more than capable of handling Arobynn Hamel, but the thought of her master using her friend like he was implying enraged her, and he knew it. Bastard.

“Good day, Arobynn,” she said, starting to close her door.

“Good day, Celaena,” he said. She caught the flash of his mocking smile before the door shut completely.

 

~  
  


Celaena travelled through shadows to avoid being seen by any pickpockets or Arobynn's spies. She couldn’t afford to get dirt or blood on her new dress and by the time she arrived at the square to meet Dorian she was in a foul mood. He was waiting near a cafe with another man and three fine horses. Dorian had chosen a light blue shirt to wear underneath his gold accented violet tunic, his black pants were well-crafted and his leather boots polished. He looked every bit like the confident and handsome Crown Prince that the public believed he was. Celaena felt her scowl deepen.

“You know you actually look like a Lady.” He said, his eyes swept over her form, taking in the burgundy gown and her hair, and nodded in satisfaction

Celaena shot him a venomous glare, “This Lady is seconds away from shoving her fist up your-”

“Whoa, calm down,” he said, raising his hands in surrender. “It was just a joke.”

“You have shit timing,” she growled, pulling her cloak tighter around herself at the cold gust of wind.

“What a great choice for your fake companion, Dorian,” the other man drawled sarcastically, “you picked such a well-spoken Lady.”

Celaena turned her angry gaze on the other man and looked him up and down. He had light brown skin and close cropped russet hair and a rugged sort of face. He wore the black uniform of the King's Guard, with the Golden Wyvern embezzled on the left breast of his jacket. Celaena frowned at the insignia.

“Who exactly are you?” she asked, glaring.

“My name is Chaol Westfall,” he said, giving her the same kind of scrutiny. “I am tasked with protecting the King as well as the rest of the royal family.”

“Well then you’re terrible at your job,” she huffed.

Chaol bristled and turned toward Dorian, “let me say this again,” he stated, “this plan is insane.”

“True,” Dorian said patting him amicably on the shoulder, “but it’s the only plan we’ve got.” Then he turned towards Celaena, “as much as I enjoy your crassness I really must insist you talk more like-”

“A high-born prat with a stick up her ass?” She queried, smiling sweetly.

“-a Lady, I meant talk more like a Lady,” he rubbed his temple in exasperation, “but sure, whatever you say.”

Celaena rolled her eyes, “Of course your highness, I will be sure to speak like one of your proper ladies while at the palace,” she said, mimicking his aristocratic Adarlanian accent.

Dorian blinked, “That was really good. Keep doing that.”

“If you two are done mocking each other,” Chaol growled, “we have to be going. The Queen and King will be holding court soon.”

Dorian handed Celaena the reigns to her own horse, a gray stallion, and then pulled himself up onto his own mount. Celaena shoved her foot into the stirrup and hefted herself onto the beast, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders.

Chaol gave Celaena a warning look before he urged his horse into a canter, Dorian and Celaena following behind him. They rode their way down main street; Celaena ignored the stares and gestures in her direction as she rode but Dorian smiled kindly and waved at his subjects. Ever the perfect prince.

As they got closer to the gate Celaena felt her skin start to tingle; starting at the tips of her fingers to her toes. The sensation left a feeling of unease in her stomach which only grew as the palace drew closer.

Chaol nodded to the guards at the gate and the three of them passed through the massive archway. Celaena felt a ripple of power envelop her and immediately felt fear stir in her gut. The feeling coated her and dulled her senses, disconnecting her from her abilities. Celaena had not told anyone that magic ran in her blood; that the shadows she hid in were not just a trick of the light but also a part of her. Without them she felt stripped bare and vulnerable, something she hadn’t felt for a very long time. She swallowed hard, and fought to keep herself from panicking as she and her companions pulled into the stables.

Celaena ran through her mental list again; glean information from her stay at the palace, execute her plan, kill the King. Simple. She might not have her shadows with her but she was still an accomplished assassin who was that much closer to buying her freedom. She could do this. Dorian hopped down from his mount and then reached for her hand, helping her down from her horse.

He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, “Welcome to the Glass Palace,” he said.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is Dorian's POV 
> 
> I based the language of Ellywe off of Xhosa, the language of the Xhosa people in South Africa. I highly suggest looking up videos of native speakers on youtube, cause its a super cool language and itll kind of give you an idea of what the language of Ellywe sounds like.

Dorian led Celaena up the path to the massive double doors at the front of the palace. The glass spires loomed overhead and Dorian felt apprehension twist in his gut; he had no idea if Celaena could pull this off, or if even he could pull this off, and he was terrified of the things that could go wrong. Dorian clenched his jaw in defiance and fought against his rising anxiety; he had to do this, he had to try. The kingdoms of Erilea, his friends, and his people needed him to do this. The King had to be stopped. So Dorian steeled himself as the guards opened the doors and led his companions inside.

Chaol marched ahead of them as they made their way through the large archways of the palace entrance. A small squad of guards fell in behind them, their boots echoed across the stone and glass walls. Celaena carefully looped her arm through his and leaned on him ever so slightly, to give the illusion that she’s enamored by him. Dorian noticed that after she passed through the gate she looked a little ill and nudged her slightly with his elbow.

“Are you alright?” He whispered in her ear. 

Celaena smiled sweetly at him, “I’m fine Prince,” she whispered back. “Just keep acting like you’re infatuated with me and we can get this done.”

“Easier said than done,” he muttered. She responded by elbowing him in the ribs.

The group turned a corner and stopped in front of two mahogany doors with golden wyverns for handles. Chaol turned towards Dorian, his eyes asking the Prince one question: are you ready? Dorian nodded and smiled at the captain. Chaol pulled the doors open and stepped aside, motioning for Dorian and Celaena to step through. 

 

~

 

The entire room seemed to freeze as the Prince and his companion entered the court. Dorian kept up his cool confident facade, swaggering into the room with Celaena, who was convincingly acting like a well-mannered member of court.

The room was made with dark granite, with large glass windows that were separated by dark marble pillars. Large red banners hung from the walls embezzled with massive gold wyverns. At the very back of the room was a raised dais with two large gold thrones. On one sat a woman in her early forties with Dorian’s copper skin and dark hair. She wore an olive green taffeta gown with a black bodice and gold trim. The Queen spotted Celaena and gave her a dazzling smile.

On the other throne sat the King in all of his glory. He wore a dark red tunic over his broad chest and black leather breeches tucked into polished black boots. He had a salt-and-pepper beard and matching hair; sitting on top of his head was a heavy gold crown, adorned with Havilliard Ruby and other gemstones. Gemstones that had been taken from the countries Adarlan invaded.

Dorian looked his father in the eye as he brought Celaena forward; never backing down from the Kings apathetic stare. Dorian knelt at the foot of the dais and Celaena followed suite, curtsying deeply to both monarchs. 

“Rise,” the King rumbled. Dorian and Celaena both rose to their feet as the King surveyed them. “It’s good to finally see you in court Dorian,” the King said, leaning back into his throne, “your mother was beginning to think you were avoiding her.”

Dorian felt heat rise to his face at his father’s subtle dig. In truth he had been avoiding court; he didn’t want to have to listen to the people of the court try to kiss his ass at every opportunity. He also wanted to avoid his father at all costs, the man was constantly snapping at Dorian for the simplest and most insignificant things. After awhile it became tiresome to have his entire existence questioned by his own father.

“I would never avoid you mother,” Dorian said, genuinely smiling at the Queen. “Over the past week I was out touring the various parts of the city with Captain Westfall.” He motioned to Chaol who was standing resolutely near the doors, watching the room carefully. “I have some ideas about how we can help-”

“Enough,” the King said silencing him, “introduce us to your friend Dorian. I’m not interested in any inane ideas you have about ruling a nation.”

Dorian worked to keep his face impassive while biting back the rage that bubbled up inside of him. His father never ever listened to a word he had to say, especially when it wasn’t about Adarlans imperialistic strategy to save the world. The King of Adarlan had a very narrow vision and Dorian would never be able to make him see reason. Dorian took a deep breath, smiled, and motioned to Celaena, who was smiling politely at the King. 

“This is Cleo Safyr,” he said, “she was sent here on diplomatic terms by the King of Ellywe.”

“There are no kings in Ellywe anymore,” the King sneered, eyes narrowing at Celaena. “I made sure of that.” Dorian saw Celaena’s eyes flash once before her face twisted in confusion. 

“She was sent by your viceroy,” Dorian added quickly. “Lady Safyr arrived before Lord Kempt sent his notice.” He tentatively moved up the steps before whispering conspiratorially in the King’s ear, “she’s really here to receive a better education than what she would get in Ellywe. You know- their teachings aren’t exactly advanced.” He hated the words as he said them, but the King had to believe that Celaena wasn’t a threat. That she was just some empty headed girl from a foreign nation who didn’t understand the complexities of the political world. The King had to underestimate her. The King regarded Celaena for a moment longer before nodding his head and waving them away.

The Queen, however, was much more curious about her son’s new companion than her husband was. She reached out her hand and Celaena walked forward and took it, kissing her knuckles lightly. “You’re from Ellywe you say?” She asked, her brown eyes curious. “I do hope the cold weather in Adarlan hasn’t treated you too badly as of late.”

“Oh well,” Celaena said, her accent taking on the slight inflection from Ellywe. “It hasn’t been too bad. Though I must say, the snow was jarring the first time I saw it.”

The Queen chuckled slightly and patted Celaena’s hand, “I’m from Fenharrow so believe me, I understand your predicament Lady Safyr.” The Queen then motioned for Dorian and handed Celaena’s hand to him, “Dorian why don’t you introduce Lady Safyr to the other Lords and Ladies in court? I’m sure they would be delighted to meet her.”

“Of course mother,” he said, looping Celaena’s arm through his and led her away from the dais. Dorian led Celaena around the room, idly naming and introducing Celaena to various nobles from across Adarlan. The Prince noted how the nobles regarded Celaena coolly with a hint of disdain and envy, as if she didn't deserve to be on his arm or anywhere near him. It made him angry; that these people thought that they somehow had a claim to him. That they believed they had a say in his personal life, that they deserved his attentions more than others. It drove him mad.

He was so caught up in his own thoughts that his mask began to slip, his anger starting to shine clearly in his eyes. Celaena, still smiling, elbowed him in the ribs. Hard. Dorian sucked in a harsh breath and shot her a dirty look.

"What was that for?" He whispered, as they meandered down the hall.

"You started glaring," Celaena said, plucking a flute of champagne off the nearest waiter's serving tray. "People were getting antsy."

"I was not glaring."

"You were. Your eyebrows got all scrunchy and your eyes darkened. If I wasn't trained the way I was I might've been a little intimidated." She said, taking a sip.

"You don't find me intimidating?" He asked incredulously.

Celaena rolled her eyes discreetly and gave him a sidelong look. "Dorian I kill people for a living," she said, her voice barely a whisper in his ear. "Nothing you could do or say could ever intimidate me."

Before Dorian could open his mouth to reply they were interrupted by two ladies, Lady Kaltain Rompier and another woman, one who was obviously from Ellywe based on her dark brown skin, braided hair, and flowing sleeveless dress. He had hoped to avoid Kaltain today but it seemed the world was out to get him this morning.

"Your highness," Lady Kaltain said, curtseying in front of him. Kaltain was from of the wealthier families in Adarlan and possessed all the charms and good looks that any aristocrat would wish for their child to have. She had smooth raven hair, a pointed chin, and high cheek bones set underneath slate gray eyes. Kaltain was beautiful but Dorian knew that her charm and poise was a deception, and underneath the mask she was incredibly ambitious and cunning. Dorian had been wary of her ever since he had met her. "This is the Princess Nehemia Ytger of Ellywe. She's just arrived at the palace and the Queen asked me to show her around." Kaltain motioned to the woman next to her.

Dorian frowned; he didn't know the Princess of Ellywe was coming, much less that she'd be in court this morning. What was his father playing at? Nevertheless he bowed to the Princess, shooting her a dazzling smile. The Princess looked the Prince up and down once before giving him a stiff bow, never once dropping her chin.

"It is good to see you Lady Kaltain," Dorian said smiling cordially. He nodded at the two woman and Celaena curtsied to both of them; the assassin had a curious look on her face as she appraised the Ellywian Princess. Like she was trying to remember something.

"I had hoped I could talk to you in court your highness," Kaltain said, batting her eyelashes. "I was worried you were too preoccupied with business."

"Of course not," Dorian said scoffing, "I love visiting court." Celaena let out an inelegant snort and Dorian fought against the urge to glare at her. Kaltain noticed the sound and turned her attention towards Celaena, a look of curiosity crossing her beautiful face.

"I don't believe we've been introduced before," Kaltain said, holding out her hand. "I am Lady Kaltain Rompier of House Rompier. And you are?"

"Lady Cleo Safyr," Celaena said clasping her hand with feigned warmth, "I am here on a trip from Ellywe and hope to learn about the ways of Adarlan."

"Oh what a coincidence!" Kaltain said motioning to the Princess, "her highness is here for the same reason!"

In response the Princess huffed out a sentence in Ellywe, a string of words with hard T's a faint clicks. Dorian racked his brain, trying to remember the many lessons his tudor tried to instill in him about the language of Ellywe, but before he could think of a proper response Celaena replied to the Princess in perfect Ellywe, the syllables and sounds rolling off her tongue easily.

Dorian blinked in surprise, working to keep the shock off his face. Lady Kaltain seemed equally baffled, looking at Celaena in a completely new light. The Princess Nehemia, on the other hand, looked downright gleeful at the discovery; her lips curling into a full smile revealing bright white teeth. Dorian had no idea what Celaena just said but it made the princess happy enough. That in and of itself worried him slightly.

The Princess reached for Celaena's hand and grasped it tightly, her smile never wavering. "I hope to see you again Lady." She said, her accent thick and halting as she tried to form a sentence in the common tongue.

"Likewise Princess," Celaena said, squeezing her hand before releasing it. A trumpet blared and the head butler appeared in the doorway, announcing that lunch was served. Dorian looped Celaenas arm through his and bid the two ladies farewell, steering Celaena toward the dining room; hoping to eat lunch and then finish plotting his father's murder by dinner.


	8. Chapter 8

Celaena found herself becoming increasingly antsy around the members of the court.

Dorian and her were seated next to one another at a long table surrounded by various Lords and Ladies of the Adarlanian court. Dorian sat on her left with the Princess Nehemia and Lady Kaltain on her right; the King sat at the head with the Queen to his left and an empty chair on his right. The rest of the court trickled into the room and took their seats.

“Who’s supposed to sit there?” Celaena asked quietly, jerking her chin at the empty seat next to the King.

“That’s Duke Perrington’s seat,” Dorian said, “he’s my father’s cousin and most trusted ally.” Celaena noticed the disdain in his voice and tucked that information away for later. She knew very little of the Duke except that he was the one to negotiate Melisandes surrender during Adarlans campaign. The Duke was known for his iron will and tremendous influence; it would be easier to assassinate the King while the Duke was out of the picture.

Before Celaena could ask Dorian more about the Duke she caught a whiff of butter and sugar and felt her stomach growl. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was. “Listen I know I came here to do a job but when are they going to serve the food?” Celaena asked, whispering in Dorians ear.

“You didn’t eat before you got here?” Dorian said, lips twitching in amusement.

Celaena remembered the conversation she had with Arobynn that morning and felt her mood darken again. She recalled the implications of his words; how he smiled serenely at her distress and anger as he promised to pay Lysandra a visit. As he promised to use his power and wave it in Celaena’s face. That alone was enough to ruin her appetite.

“I didn’t have the time,” she lied, her voice cold.

Dorian quirked a brow at her change of mood but before he could say anything maids and butlers appeared in the doorways carrying large plates laden with food. Dishes of salted pork and mince pies, large bowls of sliced fruit, platters piled high with small finger sandwiches and large chocolate tarts and a large white cake. Celaena felt her eyebrows raise is appreciation at the impressive spread before her; she’d never seen food so beautifully prepared before.

“What are those?” She asked, motioning at the basket full of small multicolored little cookies.

“You’ve never had a macaron before?” Dorian asked, eyes widening.

“There aren’t many pastry shops in the Withering District,” Celaena said quietly. Dorian gave her an odd look before passing her the basket full of macarons.

Throughout the course of lunch Celaena quickly learned that the people at court liked to play games with one another. Ladies would hurl cruel barbs at one another disguised as light teasing, the young men constantly tried to outdo one another by bragging about their latest accomplishments, and the younger members of the court couldn’t get a word in without being condescended too. Celaena noticed that many of the people vied for the King's approval; they often boasted about their family lineage or their cousins latest conquests in battle. At one point they even took to telling cruel jokes to get the King's attention.

“I can’t imagine how Ellywe has survived this long the way they have,” one young Lord chortled. “Frankly, we did them a favor by annexing them.” Everyone at the table laughed, not at all phased by the statement.

Celaena bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself from saying something truly stupid, or from hurling a knife at the man's throat, she couldn’t tell. The people of Ellywe had suffered greatly at the cost of Adarlans conquest, and Celaena knew the horrors of their invasion firsthand. It made her sick; to know that these people viewed her suffering, the suffering of her family, as a joke. She felt the rage boil low in her gut and pointedly didn’t laugh at the other cruel remarks aimed at Ellywe. 

She felt a warm hand on her arm and turned to find the Princess looking at her, her dark brows drawn together in concern.

“You seem troubled,” the Princess said quietly in Ellywe. Celaena unclenched her fists and took a deep breath, letting the feeling of Nehemia's hand ground her.

“The people in court are snobby little shits,” Celaena whispered back in Ellywe, the words rough in her throat. It had been a very long time since she spoke her native tongue. “Now I understand why Dorian doesn’t like coming here.”

Nehemia gave Dorian an impassive look before replying, “well that is possibly the only thing the Prince and I have in common.” She said waving her hand, “the nobility in this country are only dedicated to excessive posturing and nothing else. The nobles in Ellywe were more effective in their rule… at least they were.” The sadness in Nehemia’s face struck a chord deep within Celaena; the pain in the princess’s eyes was a mirror to her own and she felt a unique kind of connection that she had never felt with anyone else. 

“I’m sorry you have to deal with them every day,” Celaena said, smiling in sympathy.

Nehemia sighed, “I have to go to their court meetings, or whatever it is they call them, and have lunch and dinner with these people. It wouldn’t be so bad if their cooks knew that spices other than salt exist,” she said motioning to her plate full of food. “This is my first time trying Adarlanian cuisine and, frankly, I am not impressed.”

At that Celaena burst out laughing and Nehemia smiled along with her. Celaena would never admit it out loud but a small part of her was grateful that she was not alone in the Glass Palace.

~

It was well past three o’clock by the time the desserts had been eaten and the conversation lulled to a calm quiet. Dorian took the opportunity to excuse both Celaena and himself from the table saying that he wanted to take Cleo on a tour of the palace. The King waved them off unconcerned, listening to the story Lord Alon was telling him about his recent trip to the Red Desert. Dorian locked eyes with Chaol briefly before leading Celaena out of the dining room and down the hallway, cognizant of the guards trailing behind him.

“So do you have any ideas on how to accomplish this job i’ve tasked you with?” Dorian asked in a low voice.

“Of course I do, but I need more information first.” Celaena said, her turquoise eyes trailing over the dark marble walls and suits of armor. She had dropped her facade and the impassive, calculating look was back on her angular face. “I need to know where to access passageways, servants hallways and stairs, and possibly the castle sewers.”

“The sewers?!” Dorian hissed in horror, mortified at even the notion of someone going down there.

Celaena rolled her eyes in annoyance, “I don’t see why you’re so scandalized when you’re not the one who has to go down there.”

“But why the sewers?” He asked, genuinely bewildered.

“They provide an easy exit and the cover of darkness,” Celaena said matter-of-factly, “it also helps that it smells like festering shit and no self-respecting person would go down there to look for any perpetrators.”

“Alright Fine. Anything else?”

“We need an actual concrete plan,” Celaena said, looking at him. “I need to know the Kings schedule for the next two weeks and any movements he might make. I need to know what guards follow him and where, and I need a way to bring the rest of my equipment here.”

“Why didn’t you bring it today?”

“Because I don’t have a place to put several pieces of armor and a cloak in this dress.” Celaena said drily, “plus you didn’t really give me a lot of time before you hauled me in front of your parents and court.”

“You needed a cover!” He sputtered, “and now you’re free to roam the palace without question.”

Celaena looked at him and raised a dark eyebrow, “your lovers are allowed to run around the palace unsupervised? That sounds like a security risk.”

“They are if I say it’s okay,” Dorian mumbled. Celaena tried not to smirk as the Prince blushed.

Then she felt her fingertips throb and sucked in a harsh breath. She reached inside herself and pulled at the magic that stirred within her, willing it to take shape and give her control; but it wouldn’t budge. The shadows stayed where they were and Celaena clenched her fists in frustration. There must have been anti-magic wards enveloping the palace, otherwise she would be able to reach her powers without any trouble. If she was going to finish this job then she needed her powers back.

That was her first order of business: destroy the wards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. I know updates have been coming slowly and for those of you still sticking with this fic Rae and I really appreciate it! 
> 
> The thing is the both of us are really busy people and we have a lot on our plates. Before you worry, no, we are not abandoning this fic. It just means it might take longer for updates to be posted than the both of us originally planned. Again, we are not abandoning this fic, we're just gonna take our time. 
> 
> Anyways, thatnks for reading and if you're so inclined leave and comment or kudos! We really appreciate it :)


	9. Chapter 9

Chaol had stayed in the dining room with the King and his court long after Dorian and Celaena had left, begrudgingly listening to the scheming and drunken guffaws of the young lords. The Queen had long since excused herself and the court ladies followed suit, taking the opportunity to gossip amongst themselves. After they had left the King turned toward his council men and gave them a wicked grin.

“Now that we’re alone gentleman I will tell you about our next move.” The King snapped his fingers and a small page boy darted forward, put a roll of paper in his hand, and then scurried out of sight again. The King spread out the roll of paper on the table, revealing it to be a map of Erilea and Wendlyn, the massive country to the east. “Our next target is Varese,” he said pointing towards the capital city of Wendlyn.

“Your majesty,” a young lord said, “shouldn’t we wait to attack Wendlyn until we have all of Erilea in our grip?”

“I can see why you would be nervous about that Lord Cryer,” the King said. “However, the Red Desert will fall soon. The assassins only hold so much power and their forces and resources are spread thin.” The King smiled as he pointed to the Gulf that sat between Ellywe and the Desert. “we have a fleet of ships waiting off the coast of the Und peninsula in Ellywe. We have enough power to win the Desert by the end of the month.”

The other men nodded in agreement, some even looked at the King in awe, wowed by his power. Chaol bit down on the revulsion swimming in his gut and stayed silent, pretending not to listen to the council’s scheming.

“Now some of you must be wondering about the Wastes,” the King said motioning to the large slab of land on the left side of the country. “I am happy to inform you that that problem will be solved shortly.”

“But the witches,” Lord Alon said, swallowing hard. “They will gut our men alive if they so much as set foot in the Wastes.”

“Normally they would,” the King said, sitting back in satisfaction. “However, I sent Duke Perrington on a secret mission to negotiate with the Ironteeth witches.” There were surprised gasps around the table as the council processed the information. It was a well known fact that the ironteeth witches were the most ruthless and vicious creatures in Erilea. They were supposedly breathtakingly beautiful, and lured men in with their charms and them proceeded to drain them of their blood with their razor sharp iron teeth. If the King had successfully managed to ally himself with the witches armies then his dreams of conquering the continent might become reality. Chaol quietly filed that information away for when he met up with Dorian and Celaena later.

Chaol frowned as he remembered the assassin, the deadly girl who was currently touring the palace with the heir to the throne. She was pretty with her tanned skin, dark hair, and strange turquoise eyes, but underneath it all Chaol could see the spark of rage that seemed to permeate everything she did. She was cold and cynical with a flare for crude humor and Chaol did not understand what Dorian found so fascinating about her. He hated that she had a past with Dorian, that she managed to see the Prince behind Chaol’s back because Dorian was feeling reckless. He hated how she didn’t seem to care about anyone or anything, let alone the sheer importance of their mission. And he especially hated how his stomach curled in jealousy every time she leaned in to talk into Dorian’s ear, or whenever he looped her arm in his.

He was not a fan of Celaena Sardothien.

But Dorian insisted on using her for this mission and, for some ungodly reason, he actually trusted the assassin. So Chaol resisted the urge to throw her into the nearest dungeon and vowed to help his Prince make his plans a reality. That didn’t mean he had to like it though.

Chaol shook himself slightly and focused on the King and his words, burying his thoughts of the assassin and the Prince. 

~

 

It was past nine o’clock by the time the King and his council departed from the dining room, satisfied at the plans they concocted. Chaol sent a group of guards to escort the King back to his chambers and then made his way to the tower. He took the stairs two at a time and bounded up the winding passageway towards Dorian’s room. 

He didn’t bother to knock, knowing that Dorian was used to his friend bursting in without prior request. Opening the door, he found Dorian sat at his desk, slouched in his chair with his feet propped atop the dark oak desk. The desk itself was hidden beneath Dorian’s hoard of books, one lengthy tome sat open within his slender hands.

Those hands weren’t particularly calloused, unmarred from the trials of swordsmanship. Chaol would even say they were the hands of a violinist, even though Dorian neither owned nor knew how to play a violin. 

Like his hands, Dorian himself remained uncalloused despite his father’s tyranny. This was most apparent now as the Prince was too engrossed in his book to notice Chaol’s sudden appearance, a faint smile upon his face. Dorian had a slight softness to him whenever he wasn't holed up in court or around his father, he could finally let his mask fall away. Something within Chaol panged when he realised that this serene look would fade the moment Chaol told him about his father's council meeting.

“How many books is that now?” Chaol teased, closing the chamber door behind him.

Dorian’s sapphire eyes flicked towards Chaol and the faint smile on his lips stayed the same, or perhaps even widened. He snapped the book shut before chucking it back on the stack, keeping his eyes on his friend. “Too many,” he said, planting his feet back on the floor before turning in his chair to face Chaol fully. “Any news from my father’s council?” he asked innocently.

Chaol sighed. “He’s planning a siege on Wendlyn.”

“But the west-” Dorian pondered, brow furrowed. He straightened in his chair, watching Chaol with a confused expression, not so much vexed by Chaol but more so by his father.

“Apparently, Perrington’s been over there trying to placate the witches.” Chaol elaborated. “The King wasn’t privy to details, but he’s affirmative that they won’t be a problem.”

Dorian’s gaze was now on the floor, sapphire eyes hardening into ice. The nights of the King’s weekly council meetings always ended like this, Dorian finding yet another reason to hate his father - one less hesitation from committing patricide. He looked up desperately, asking, “What about the assassins? Surely they haven’t fallen?” 

“Not yet,” Chaol said with a sigh. “But your father says that they will soon.”

Chaol didn’t know why, but he expected Dorian to explode; to throw something across the room and run his fingers through his hair, to pace the room and curse his fathers name to high heaven. Perhaps he thought that because it was what the King would have done, and he cursed himself. Dorian didn’t deserve to be compared to that monster, even if Chaol had served his father for so long. He was only now realising where his loyalties lay.

But the Prince did nothing of what Chaol imagined. Dorian merely stood from his perch without a word and walked to the nearest window. Chaol watched his friend as he stared out the window, gazing over the kingdom he would one day- soon inherit. He imagined the Prince agonising over every single life in the capital and the towns and villages and kingdoms beyond.

Chaol wanted nothing but to relieve that pain from Dorian’s heart.

“What are we going to do now?” Chaol asked quietly.

Dorian sighed. “There’s nothing we can do,” he said. “It’s all up to Celaena now.”

Scowling slightly, Chaol moved slowly towards the Prince at the other end of the room. He came to rest beside his friend, leaning up against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. “How do you know that she’ll be able to do this?” he asked softly.

“I just know,” Dorian merely offered.

Chaol’s brow furrowed more so. “But how?” he pressed. “How am I supposed to trust her? Take your word for it?”

“Yes,” Dorian turned to him finally, a slight scowl donning his drow. “Do you not trust my word?”

Chaol paused at that, feeling Dorian’s sapphire gaze bore into his. A challenge. “Of course I do,” Chaol said, his voice bordering a whisper. “There will never be a day that I won’t.”

Something within Dorian softened at that, and Chaol could see the subtle release of breath. The Prince’s eyes softened as he said, “Then you know how important Celaena’s participation in this is.”

The Captain took a moment to study the boy of whom he’d given everything up for. Chaol had revoked his title for his soft smile, had killed for his uncalloused hands, and was now working against the King just to keep the light in Dorian’s eyes. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to keep that boy smiling.

~

 

Celaena had lost count of how many times she’d growled that evening. She currently sat in the corner of her chambers, a dresser pulled away from the wall so she could hide her work once she finally decided to give up. As she growled, she slashed at the wall with ink she’d snatched from someone’s study while she’d been snooping earlier.

Black liquid scarred grey stone as she once again drew on the wall of her bedchamber, trying to form complex symbols that hadn’t been commonly used for centuries. Celaena barely knew how to draw wyrdmarks herself; it was a skill - like her ability to shift shadows - that had been taught to her by her parents.

However, it had been over a decade since she’d last used them. She’d never tried to break a ward before, and none as strong as the one surrounding the castle. There were so many factors involved in the writing of wyrdmarks; how you wrote them, where you wrote them, and what you wrote them with. Sadly, until Celaena was sure she could get this series of marks right, she was confined to the small chamber corner.

Whilst she had been wandering the castle, constructing her plans A through Z, she’d also taken the time to scout out potential wyrdmark locations. They would need to be put all over the castle, of course; behind tapestries, beneath rugs, in the condensation of the windows. For an area this size, Celaena would need over one hundred wyrdmarks to counteract the wards.

She’d tried to find the wyrdmarks keeping the wards up, but she’d had no such luck. The King must have hidden his marks well, wove them into the walls of this castle during its construction.

When her latest wyrdmark refused to react to its surroundings, Celaena let out another growl and slashed the paintbrush through the failed mark. Huffing, she got up and shoved the dresser back against the wall. Now to tackle her stationary, she secured the ink pot and paintbrush beneath the mattress.

Sitting on the bed, Celaena suddenly felt the weight of how alone she was. She tapped her fingers against her knees, looking around the bed chamber. Like the wall she had been painting on, it was all stone; with a separate dining room, bathroom, and lounge. At her request, Dorian had placed her in the old stone council; she hadn’t mentioned that she was afraid of the height and lack of privacy but he had merely sensed it from her.

She allowed her mind to wander to Dorian. They hadn’t spoken of what had occurred two years ago - which felt like forever, Celaena thought. However, she still recalled a few moments vividly; a starry night, a rainbow of colours, a masked man with sapphire eyes, that same mask discarded on a bedroom floor.

Celaena shivered.

She decided that she didn’t want to talk to Dorian to end her crippling loneliness. Hell, she couldn’t think of anyone that she could talk to at- She glaced at the clock in the corner. Eleven at night? she thought to herself, shaken that she had been trying to form wyrdmarks for so long.

Maybe she should just go to sleep. She was already sat on the bed, her gown had been discarded for a loose shirt and trousers, it wouldn’t take much to blow out the candles and slide into bed.

However, her mind wouldn’t stop thinking. Being in an unfamiliar place such as the glass palace just set her on edge, not to mention the stifling wards that rendered her magic useless. Without the shadows to call upon, she just felt empty.

Her eyes fell to her window and the starry sky beyond. Maybe she could try to sneak out, test out the security of the night shift. After all, she only needed to get on the other side of the castle walls for her body to disapparate into dark mist. It being night meant that she could travel faster and further than she could in the day. Yes, she would sneak out.

But it would be difficult.

~

Lysandra opened her door unsuspectingly and didn’t notice the shadow bend around her and apparate into the figure of a woman.

“I need your help again,” Celaena said as she lay on Lysandra’s bed, the courtesan spinning around in shock then scrunching up her nose at the assassin.

“When I said “let’s be friends again,” I didn’t mean you could come into my apartment whenever you liked,” Lysandra nagged as she shut the door. She rolled her eyes when Celaena grinned.

Sitting up, Celaena excused, “Well, I wouldn’t have come in if you hadn’t have opened the door.” She raised a smug eyebrow at the courtesan.

Not biting any further, Lysandra sat down on the bed beside Celaena and lifted a daintily curved eyebrow. “Well?” she asked. “What do you want?”

“What do you know about wyrdmarks?” Celaena asked, offering no context or why she  
wanted to know. Lysandra just stared for a moment, wondering if the assassin will ever be truly honest with her. Of course, she understood that Celaena’s work required a lot of discretion, but that didn’t mean Lysandra couldn’t be curious.

“Absolutely nothing,” Lysandra shrugged in the most unladylike manor. She liked to shed all pretenses when around people she cared about, including Celaena. If the assassin wasn’t going to be honest, that didn’t mean that Lysandra couldn’t be.

“Wow, alright,” Celaena blinked.

But she made no move to leave.

“Something else you want?” Lysandra deadpanned.

Celaena was silent for a moment, tracing her fingers over the floral designs of Lysandra’s duvet. The courtesan studied the assassin, she could tell that the other girl was nervous though from the way she avoided eye contact. For a dangerous assassin she was terrible at hiding her feelings.

Rolling her eyes, Lysandra left the bed and stepped towards a cabinet in the corner of her room. She bent and opened the doors, revealing its contents. The green bottles gleamed in the evening candle light and Lysandra skimmed her fingers over them before picking a bottle at random. She then gathered a couple of wine glasses from another shelf and kicked the cabinet closed, swaggering back to Celaena on the bed.

The assassin took one of the offered glasses with a smirk. “How did you know?” she asked as the other girl poured red wine into the glass.

Lysandra merely shrugged and said, “You have that look in your eye.” Once both glasses were filled, the courtesan came to sit next to Celaena and practically commanded, “So spill. Tell Auntie Lysandra why you’re so stressed.”

“Can’t” Celaena denied before taking a sip of her wine. “Just know that I have a strong hatred for wyrdmarks.”

“What’s your quarrel with them, though?” Lysandra pressed as she waggled her eyebrows, taking a large gulp from her glass.

Celaena narrowed her eyes at the other girl, but then took a huge swig and relented. “There’s a specific mark I’m trying to draw but it never works.”

“What’s the mark? Maybe I can help.”

“What help are you when you said you knew nothing of wyrdmarks only a few minutes ago?”

“Breaking down the problem will help relieve the stress of it.”

The assassin fell silent, studying Lysandra. The courtesan knew that Celaena had to be careful with what information she relented. It was to protect both herself and her clients and it was a rule that Lysandra was most accustomed to. However, she could sense that this task was much bigger than what Celaena had been commissioned to do before. She could see it in the way that Celaena was blurring at the edges, suggesting that she had been awake so long that she was losing control of her magic. Celaena wasn’t really known to lose sleep when on the job - after the job, yes, if it was one that conflicted with the assassin’s morals but this was a different kind of tired.

It was a “how on earth am I going to do this” kind of tired.

“I have to take down some wards,” Celaena finally said quietly, immediately taking a sip and looking away.

“Wards?” Lysandra asked. “But haven’t you done similar jobs where the wards weren’t a problem?”

Celaena shook her head. “I need my powers for this job, it would be impossible without them.” She met Lysandra’s gaze and the courtesan saw the determination return to her friend’s turquoise eyes. Lysandra repressed a smile.

The assassin broke down her problem to the courtesan, not divulging too much about the job but from Celaena’s tone and the tapping of her fingers, she needed to do this fast. Lysandra guessed that this job was something big, very big. She pursed her lips thoughtfully before sauntering over to her wardrobe; she pulled out an ink pot, some quills, and several pieces of parchment paper and set them down on the floor. 

“Something tells me you used to use Wyrdmarks right?” The assassin nodded and Lysandra handed her one of the quills. “Then it’s time to brush up on your skills.” First, together, they started off with something small like breaking a ward around a box. In this, they found it easy to break the ward with simple ink, and that Celaena was drawing the wyrdmark correctly. However, as they tried with larger and larger space, they realised that the wyrdmarks needed more time and care taken to draw them. When Celaena tried to break a ward they cast around Lysandra’s room, they found she could not.

“Don’t worry about it,” Lysandra said, placing a comforting hand on the assassin’s shoulder. “We’ll find a way tomorrow,” she added, glancing at the clock.

It was two in the morning and they were both so tired from working that they collapsed onto the bed. Their eyes to grew heavy and Celaena yawned loudly before snuggling into the covers, curling her arms around Lysandras waist. The courtesan sighed contentedly before leaning back into the assassin and falling into a deep sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the plot thickens


	10. Chapter 10

Leaves crunched on the forest floor as the men picked their way through the trees, trying to stay quiet as they searched for the monster who had been terrorizing their farms for days. She had stolen dozens of sheep and cows to feed her great beast, she had terrorized them with her otherworldly golden eyes and silver hair for far too long.

They stalked through the brush; their torches cast eerie shadows along the trees, their swords and pitchforks glinting in the dull firelight. They were ready and determined men, prepared to wipe the monster off the face of the earth.

But what they didn’t know was that this particular monster had already been waiting.

~

Manon Blackbeak, leader of the Thirteen and Heir to the Blackbeak clan, watched silently as the men from the village barreled their way through the forest, making sure they made their presence known to every creature in the immediate vicinity. There were ten of them, human, with thick beards and large muscular hands. Manon could smell the sweat and fear coming off of them in waves, even from her perch high in the tree. She had wondered when they were finally going to attack or try to draw her out; really she was getting bored with such dull entertainment. But now the hunt was on, and her fingers were itching to slice and maim. She grinned as her iron teeth slid out of her gums.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

She slid from her tree branch and dropped onto the forest floor, not bothering to hide the sound her boots made as she hit the ground. By the time the first man turned towards her she was already in front of him and, with a wicked smile, drove her iron nails into his throat.

The man let out a pathetic gurgling sound as blood spilled past his lips. Manon ripped her hand away, severing his head, and watched as blood spill everywhere. For a split second the other men stared at her, fear and horror clouding their eyes, before they screamed and ran towards her, raising their swords and spears high.

Manon could only laugh.

She knocked a sword out of one man's hand, gripped his tunic, and threw him behind her, his back hitting the nearest tree with a loud thump. The kicked up the fallen sword and drove it into the gut of her next victim, twisting it viciously as the man cried out. Adrenaline soared through her as she fought, and her blue blood sang as she killed and sliced her way through, delighting in the sound of bones snapping and squelch of blood underfoot.

The last man was huddled against a tree, his face frozen in fear as Manon sauntered towards him, leaving the bodies of nine other men in her wake. Manon felt the blood drip down her face and arms as she drew closer, the smell of gore and urine heavy in the air as she approached him, flexing her fingers as she went.

“Please,” he begged. He was shaking so badly now he couldn’t stand, “please have mercy.”

“Mercy?” Manon said tilting her head quizzically. She liked to play with her food on occasion, but these men were boring, as usual.

“Please.” He begged again, tears running down his face.

Manon flashed her iron teeth in a dangerous smile before lashing out and gripping the man's throat viciously, her nails digging into his skin. “I don’t know the meaning of the word.” She saw his eyes widen in terror before she tore his head from his shoulders.

~

Abraxos was waiting for her in a clearing by the time she got back from her stint in the woods, his massive frame awakening at the sight of her. The massive gray wyvern let out a huff of acknowledgment before flopping back down on the soft grass, his wings and legs spread out on the ground.

Manon rolled her eyes in annoyance as she approached him. She had chosen to make Abraxos her mount over nine decades ago, when she had just turned eighteen. He was the smallest in his herd and the most abused. When Manon and her peers went to pick their wyverns she saw Abraxos as the small, almost runt-like wyvern he had been, thin and weak from malnourishment. He was the punching bag of the herd, and could only receive the scraps of the most recent kill because that’s all the other wyverns would ever let him have.

Manon had taken one look at Abraxos and had known that he would be her mount; he was a fighter and a survivor, as evidenced by the scars marring his gray leathery skin, and Manon would have no other beast. However, it turned out Abraxos was far more lethargic and calm than most wyverns; he still did his fair share of fighting and hunting but while Manon was off hunting or scouting he tended to roll around in the wild grass and take long naps. Manon found it baffling.

She kicked his wing lightly, and the massive wyvern huffed in annoyance before sitting up and shaking himself off. Manon swung herself into the saddle and shoved her booted feet into the stirrups, she slid her second protective eyelid in place and yanked the reins. Abraxos let out a cry of excitement before flapping his large wings and taking off into the evening sun.

~

By the time she got back to the barracks, her Thirteen were waiting for her.

The Thirteen was the name given to Manon’s coven of thirteen witches; thirteen of the most ferocious and skilled witches among all of the Blackbeak covens, and Manon was their leader. They had been the pride of the Blackbeak witch clan for decades, and the Matrons greatest enforcers. Usually they would be inside their quarters in the tower, but right now they were waiting on the lip of the canyon, right outside the barracks. Manon frowned as Abraxos landed on the cliffside.

“Why are none of you inside?” She asked, sliding from Abraxos’s back and turning to her witches.

“Hello Heir Blackbeak,” Asterin Blackbeak said, her feral smile sliding into place at the sight of Manon. Asterin was Manon’s cousin and her second, the woman who would take her place should she fall in battle.

Asterin was similar to Manon in many ways yet so different; she was headstrong and impassioned whereas Manon was icy and detached. She had the same angular golden eyes that Manon had but instead of pale skin and silvery hair, she had gold-brown skin with a crown of wavy blonde curls. “We wanted to meet you when you arrived.”

Manon’s eyes narrowed, “what happened?”

“The Matron wants to see you,” Sorrel, her dark haired Third-in-command said, “she has important news for you.”

Manon turned towards Abraxos, “go back to the tower.” The wyvern grunted, spread his wings, and took off towards the roosting tower with the other wyverns in the coven. Manon then turned on her heel and made her way inside the barracks to see her grandmother.

~

The Blackbeak Matron was possibly the most ruthless of all the Blackbeak witches, and had been grooming Manon to be her successor for a hundred years. As soon as the Matron saw Manon’s gold eyes after her birth, she had declared her granddaughter as her heir, heedless of her daughters still cooling corpse. Manon had been born into a legacy of blood and ruthlessness. Discipline. Obedience. Brutality. that was the mantra that all ironteeth witches lived by. When Manon entered the Matrons study she was ready for whatever mission her grandmother had for her and her coven.

“You sent for me.” Manon said by way of greeting. The Matron looked up from her parchment and gazed at Manon impassively, her thin mouth turned down at the corners. The Matron was hundreds of years old despite looking to be only in her sixties; witches were immortal but they still aged, albeit very slowly.

“I assume you were out having fun.” The Matron said, nodding her head at Manon’s blood covered state.

Manon grinned, “I wish there had been more. Ten wasn’t enough for me.”

The Matron scoffed as she rolled up her piece of parchment. Manon noted that there was an odd twinkle of glee in her grandmothers’ eyes, as if she had just been handed an irrevocable victory.

“Granddaughter we have just been given an opportunity.” Manon frowned but said nothing and let her grandmother continue. “The King of Adarlan has offered his help to us.”

Manon’s lips twitched in displeasure, “why should we care about what a human king has to offer us?”

“Because dear granddaughter, they have offered to help us conquer the Wastes for good.” The Matron was grinning now, her iron teeth, rusted around the edges, were on full display. “They have a secret weapon, and I must say, I’m impressed with it.”

Manon was incredibly skeptical of that but if she challenged her grandmother, the Matron would punish her for disrespect, so she kept her mouth shut and listened.

“This man who negotiated with me, this Duke, has offered his assistance in taking the Wastes in exchange for our help in conquering the rest of Erilea and Wendlyn in the name of Adarlan.”

“Why would they need our help? They’ve conquered most of the continent on their own, why now?”

“They need the extra power,” the Matron said standing, “after all humans are fragile creatures.” The Matron walked around her desk and faced Manon fully, clasping her hands behind her back. “You and the rest of the covens will move to the tower of Morla at the Ferian Gap, there will we train to make our move.”

Manon frowned, “What covens do you want me to take?”

“All of them.”

Manon was a master at keeping her face neutral, but the urge to let her eyes widen in shock was overwhelming. The Blackbeak covens had been scattered far and wide throughout the western side of the Wastes for centuries, why would they need to be gathered together now?  
“What am I supposed to do with so many covens?”

The Matron’s eyes narrowed, her gaze suddenly turning deadly. “Are you not able to control the Blackbeaks? Because if you cannot you are not fit to be my heir.”

Manon bristled, “That’s not what I said.”

“Then it shouldn’t be a problem,” the Matron said, staring her down. Manon bit down on the inside of her cheek in anger and nodded.

“Understood Matron.”

“Good. You are dismissed.” The Matron turned away from her and sat back at her desk. “I expect you to get there in three days’ time.”

“It will be done.” Manon turned to leave but the Matron stopped her.

“One more thing.” The Matron was resting her chin on her hand, and gazed at Manon with ferocity and scrutiny. “The Bluebloods and the Yellowlegs will also be joining us, and you will keep the covens in line.”

“Why in the name of the Gods would we need the help of the Yellowlegs and the Bluebloods?” Manon asked incredulously. The Bluebloods and the Yellowlegs were the other rivalling witch clans, their mantra was the same but the latter clan was a bunch of zealous believers and the former were made up of barbarous and overbearing witches. The three different clans couldn’t stand each other and the fact that they had united to help with Adarlan’s campaign was near unbelievable.

Manon was expecting a slap at her outburst, but it didn’t come. Instead the Matron was grinning again, her shark teeth glinting in this low firelight. “There are larger plans in motion granddaughter. You will learn soon enough. Do what I say and get the covens to the Ferian Gap and the rest will be revealed to you.” The Matron then waved her hand and that was it, Manon was dismissed.

Manon turned on her heel and left the study; as she made her way towards her quarters she wondered just what exactly her grandmother had planned.

~~~

Celaena woke to an incessant banging.

She was off the bed and on her feet in second, her fists raised and her feet apart, ready to attack whoever was here. Only no one was inside the room, except for Lysandra who was snoring quietly on the bed she had just leapt out of. The banging noise was coming from outside one of the apartment doors, and judging by the dictatorial voice ordering the tenants to get up and get dressed, Celaena knew that Clarisse, Lysandra’s mistress, was prepping her courtesans for another day of work. Soon the banging reached Lysandra’s door, and the harsh voice came through clear as a bell.

“Get up, Lysandra, you have money to make.” Celaena clenched her jaw and resisted the urge to break down the door and beat Clarisse over the head with one of Lysandra’s coat hangers.

Clarisse ran the most expensive and well-kept pleasure house in Rifthold, dozens of wealthy young Lords and Ladies travelled here to get a taste of pleasure from the best courtesans in town. Clarisse took seventy percent of her courtesans’ earnings for herself, leaving them with barely anything, making it extremely hard for the courtesans to buy their contracts and leave the house. Lysandra had been trying to pay off her contract since she was eight, after Arobynn had found her starving in the street and had given her to Clarisse as a gift. As if she was a thing to be used and given away.

Celaena had been lucky when Arobynn found her; he saw the anger in her and decided to make her his protégé assassin, while Lysandra had been saddled in a pleasure house with a job she hated. It had been nicer when they were young; before they had to work and they could go out and play and have some semblance of normalcy in their lives. But once Lysandra turned eighteen and Sam had died… their normal lives had disintegrated. 

Celaena shook herself out of her thoughts, now was not the time to get nostalgic about her dead lover and forgotten childhood. It was then that Lysandra stirred and woke, grumbling and rubbing her eyes.

“Crotchety bitch,” she muttered as she rose to her feet. Lysandra’s dark hair was tangled around her shoulders and her green eyes were tired from lack of sleep, she shot a half-hearted glare at Celaena as she turned towards her vanity. “I don’t know how you’re not tired. We barely got any sleep.”

“I usually don’t sleep much anyways.” Celaena said looking out the window, “why in the name of the Gods does Clarisse have you up at sunrise?” Celaena said incredulously, “doesn’t she believe in ‘beauty sleep’ and all that bullshit.”

“She’s like Arobynn,” Lysandra said, her voice going cold at the mention of the Assassin King. “She makes us work late and rise early so that we have some discipline or whatever.”

“What will you look like today Lys?” Celaena asked without thinking. The question seemed innocent enough but Lysandra froze and looked at Celaena in fear. Lysandra had magic too, but instead of bending outside elements like Celaena she could change her shape at will. Shapeshifters were incredibly rare and were the first magic-users targeted by the Kings anti-magic campaign; Lysandra was probably the last shapeshifter in Adarlan and very paranoid about who knew her true nature. “I meant what are you wearing? Not… you know.”

Lysandra released a breath and put the comb down. “Celaena you have a job to do,” she said looking at the assassin imploringly, “I’ll be fine without you just… get back to your assassinating.”

“I don’t like leaving you with her,” Celaena said, feeling part of her wall come down. Around other people Celaena was detached and impassive, but Lysandra was dear to her in a way no one else was. It was odd but Celaena didn’t mind letting her guard down a bit when she was with Lysandra.

The courtesan looked at her in surprise, her mouth opening in shock. She looked like she wanted to say something more but there was another loud banging knock at her door.

“You have ten minutes, Lysandra. Get ready and get down to the sitting room,” Clarisse growled from the other side. Celaena hissed and moved toward the door, ready to snap Clarisse’s neck but Lysandra stepped in front of her and held her back.

“You know what happens if you kill her,” Lysandra said, pressing on Celaena’s shoulders. The assassin took a deep breath and stepped back, folding her anger away to be used later.

“I know,” she said, closing her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault that this is my life,” Lysandra said wryly. “But you should be going. You’ve got your ‘big job’ to worry about, plus these ridiculous wordmarks, or whatever you call them.”

“They’re called Wyrdmarks and I don’t understand why it’s not working.” Celaena said, scrubbing the back of her neck. “The symbols should’ve broken the wards around the room. It can’t just be size.” The assassin scratched her chin, “I’m missing something.”

“What’s the deal with these wyrdmarks anyways? Why don’t they work like normal magic?” Lysandra asked, rooting through her wardrobe for her favorite rose colored dress.

“It’s ancient magic,” Celaena said, “It’s about tapping into the wild magic that flows through the earth rather than the magic inside ourselves. It’s tricky and, unlike our magic, it requires something in return…” Celaena fell silent at that and Lysandra turned toward her to find the assassin frowning in annoyance.

“What is it?” Lysandra asked.

“I think I may know how to effectively break the wards now.” Celaena said, “but it requires much more of me than I thought.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I have to leave,” Celaena said, turning toward the window. Lysandra made a noise of protest but Celaena had already opened the window and swung herself out, dropping from the third story floor and using her shadows to cushion her fall. As she dashed off in the early morning she missed seeing Lysandra throw her hands up in exasperation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And Manon joins the battle! We might be seeing a certain witchling in later chapters too ;)


	11. Chapter 11

The view of the palace grounds from her bedroom window was beautiful, even if it was a reminder of her forced confinement in Adarlan.

Nehemia rested her hands lightly on the stone ledge, the cold bleeding into her fingers as she gazed at the red and violet sunrise. She was reminded of the morning she was forced to leave; slowly packing up trunks with clothes, books, and scrolls, trying to keep her tears at bay. Her parents and brother could only offer her a few quick hugs, before the soldiers shepherded her into the carriage and drove off towards Adarlan. But her mother’s words rang dully in her ears as the carriage sped away, _sharp as a blade and twice as sturdy._ Her family motto. 

She had no other choice but to leave Ellywe, for the good of her people and for her family. The King wanted something done about the rebellion that had risen against Adarlan since it annexed Ellywe years ago, and he demanded that the former Princess come to Rifthold in order to quell the insurrection. They told her that she would become an ambassador for Ellywe in the court of Adarlan, that she could learn about her new king and culture, that she could be a “reformed” Ellywian. It was really just a distraction, a fancy title obscuring the fact that Princess Nehemia was forced to leave her home and her family and become Adarlans captive. 

Her hands curled into fists unconsciously as she stared out the window, the horizon slowly turning orange and gold as the sun rose over the Avery river. Adarlan would learn soon enough just what it meant to have a Ytger in their midst, and Nehemia would make sure they payed dearly for every crime against her people.

The King, his empire, his corrupt council… she would raze it all to the ground. And now that she was in Rifthold, at the heart of the empire, she would make sure to tear it all apart.

~

Celaena wove through the narrow street of the Withering District in shadow, avoiding restless street urchins and drunken men who were just waking up from their alcohol induced stupor. She needed to get back to her apartment and then back to the palace, before the sun rose fully into the sky. 

The assassin curled her fingers inward and felt the tug of energy low in her gut, calling the darkness towards her. There was a whisper of movement, a low hiss against the cobbled streets and cracked stone walls, as shadows slithered out between the cracks and corners, twirling around her ankles and enveloping the assassin in the cover of darkness. She pressed her shadowed self against the alley wall and curled her palms outward, compelling the shadows to move forward. 

With a jerk of speed, she sped through the streets, the stone archways and cracked wooden doors blurring as her shadows deftly whizzed through the Withering District. There were few things in life that made Celaena truly happy, and using her powers, connecting with her shadows, was one of them. The ability to speed around virtually unseen, to blend in with the background and disappear, it sparked a feeling of hope inside her. A feeling that felt a lot like freedom. 

It was something she guarded close to her chest, too afraid to tell anyone other than Lysandra for fear of Arobynn somehow finding out. He would use any bit of leverage against her in a heartbeat if it meant that she wouldn’t be able to buy her freedom; he knew that as soon as she was free she would leave Adarlan and never return. Why he wanted her to stay so desperately was beyond her. 

Celaena deftly jerked her shadows to the right and slid slid through the first floor door of a warehouse. It was then that she dropped her shadows, letting them fade into the walls, before bounding up the stairs to the next landing. A door sat at the top of the stairs and Celaena slid the keys from her pocket and unlocked the large deadbolt along with the lock. The assassin brushed past the living room into her bedroom and and opened the large wooden trunk sitting against the wall.

Celaena pulled out a large satchel with a long strap and began to pull weapons from the bottom of the trunk; a set of throwing knives, two short blades, three coils of rope with iron hooks attached, and a sabre. The sabre had been a gift from Arobynn for her nineteenth birthday; the sword hilt was made of white gold and embezzled with a small orange citrine gemstone. The sword was not as flashy as Arobynn’s other weapons but the blade and the knuckle guard were both made from pattern welded steel, and the mottled metal glinted in the dull light creeping through the windows.

The assassin hooked the sword to her belt and stuffed the other equipment into the satchel along with some pieces of leather armor and swung the bag over her shoulder, grunting at the weight. She then slipped out of her apartment and locked the door, barrelling down the steps as fast as she could.

Celaena called her shadows to her again and sped along the street towards the palace, trying her best to arrive back in her room before eight o’clock. But as she got closer to the palace her shadows began to falter, rippling around her and shying away from the approaching wards. The assassin pushed her shadows towards an alleyway and stopped at the large grate embedded in the sidewalk.

Celaena really didn’t want to have to go through the palace sewers but she couldn’t afford to be seen by the guards. So she took a deep breath, pulled her collar up around her mouth and nose, opened the grate, and dropped into darkness.

~

Chaol was pacing.

Dorian watched him walk from one end of the room to the other, idly tracing the patterns on the chair he was sitting in. The prince wore a dark gray tunic today laced with silver accents and coordinating indigo pants and black boots. The dull color brought out the deep blue of his eyes which were trained on Chaol in a mixture of concern and amusement.

“Captain you’re making me nervous.”

“You should be nervous,” Chaol snapped, clenching his hands behind his back. “She’s _late_.” Chaol bit off the last word, as if that was the most deplorable thing Celaena Sardothien had ever done. Dorian found Chaol’s whole demeanor somewhat comical, despite the fact that his friend had a point; he didn’t know much about assassins but he had expected that they would be punctual at least. That apparently did not apply to Celaena Sardothien. 

“Chaol, you need to relax.” Dorian said placatingly, giving his friend an imploring look. Chaol scoffed and went back to pacing, trying to work off the his nervous energy.

“You seem tense Captain.” A female voice said from the doorway. Both men turned to find Celaena leaning against the doorway; her face betrayed nothing except for her eyebrow quirked in question. 

Celaena had traded yesterday’s puffy skirt for a more simple violet gown; the neckline was cut so as to show off her shoulders and the sleeves were long and clung to her arms. The bodice was short and the skirt was small and practical. She wore a simple pair of silver earrings and a matching necklace that accented the strange turquoise color of her eyes. It was a simple arrangement, but it worked for the assassin.

“You look nice.” Dorian said without thinking.

Celaena's lips twitched in amusement, “Thank you, your highness,” she drawled, giving him a short curtsy. 

“Why are you late?” The question made the easy going atmosphere dissipate as the two of them turned towards Chaol. He was scowling and his arms were crossed over his uniformed chest as he regarded Celaena in annoyance. 

The assassin took the coldness in stride and stepped into the room, her skirt brushing her ankles and the strong smell of lavender coming off of her. “I had to take two baths after my stroll in the sewers this morning.”

Chaol blinked in surprise, his arms dropping from his chest as his gaze turned from angry to bewildered. Dorian, however, looked mortified.

“Why the hell were you in the _sewers_?!” He sputtered. Celaena shrugged as she stepped closer to the prince, leaning her arm on his shoulder.

“I had some equipment to get and I didn’t want to get arrested on my way in.” She said idly. 

Chaol frowned again, his eyes darting to the arm sitting on Dorian's shoulder before settling on the assassin again. “What kind of equipment?”

“The violent variety.” She said gazing at him impassively. Chaol tensed, a hundred different scenarios flitting through his head as Celaena stared at him with her odd eyes. “You really don’t want me to use weapons, Captain? I mean I could snap his neck with my bare hands if you want but I really didn’t think you had a preference.”

“I don’t have a preference,” Chaol growled, “I think that-”

“As much as I enjoy watching you two butt heads we have to be going,” Dorian interjected, looping Celaena’s arm through his. “Mother and the other nobles are socializing in the garden and we should be there right now.” With that Dorian pulled Celaena through the doors toward the gardens, with Chaol trailing behind them.

~

If he had to pick, Dorian preferred his mother’s garden parties over court meetings.

He liked the fresh air, he wasn’t confined to a stuffy dining room with a bunch of pretentious ass kissers. He could meander around the garden without issue, and only have to talk briefly to passersby. The Queen and the rest of the nobles wandered around the large patio extending from the back of the palace overlooking the gardens; they preferred to stand around and eat and gossip, but Dorian liked to walk around. It relaxed him and kept him grounded to the present, something he needed with all the tension clinging to his shoulders. 

Celaena walked with him, her arm looped through his as she talked him through her ideas for how to proceed with their plans. She had slipped back into the Cleo Safyr facade, and was smiling serenely at the the scenery as she quietly schemed with the Prince about their assassination plans. She asked him about guard patterns, their rotations, if the king was going to leave the palace at any point on a campaign. The amount of questions made Dorian's head swim.

“Look can you just slow down for a second?” He said, leading her towards a path through the hedges. “The questions you have are better suited for Chaol anyways.”

“Of course they are,” she huffed. Dorian bristled at her tone, as if she was expecting more from him, as if he were as empty-headed as he pretended to act. The insinuation alone irritated him to no end. “Well since you can’t give me the information I need, what do you suggest we pretend to talk about?”

That question caught him off guard. What would they talk about? They didn’t have much in common beyond having a foreign parent. She was an assassin who had been taking commissions since she was seventeen. Dorian was a Prince who spent his time racing dogs, sword fighting, flirting, and trying in vain to sneak into his father's’ council meetings. There was really only one thing he could think of to mention to her.

“What about the Starlight Ball?” He asked, ducking his head to whisper in her ear. Celaena didn’t give anything away, aside from the tensing of her shoulders and a faint blush turning her cheeks rosy.

“We are not talking about that right now.”

“Why not? I had a fun time that night.” Dorian winked at her and was met with the assassins eyes narrowing in annoyance. 

“I have no intention of mentioning our little... _tryst_ , during Starlight,” Celaena hissed. “I’m here to do a job and that’s it.”

Dorian frowned as the assassin gazed forward, her walls slipping back into place. Celaena didn’t care about anything else but finishing the job, and Dorian didn’t know why that realization disappointed him so much.

Just as he opened his mouth to ask her about what she meant there was a sound of greeting behind them. Dorian tried not to groan in exasperation as Lady Kaltain made her way up the walkway, her long red skirt trailing behind her. 

“Oh, Your highness!” Kaltain Rompier exclaimed, curtseying at the sight of the Prince. “I was just walking through the garden admiring the flowers when I ran into you and Lady Safyr.” She said, motioning to Celaena. 

“Oh, well it is very good to see you Lady Kaltain,” he said, bowing lightly. Celaena curtseyed back, but there was a light frown on her face. 

“Where is the Princess Nehemia? If you don’t mind my asking of course,” Celaena said tilting her head slightly. “I had hoped to talk with her after our initial meeting yesterday.”

“Ah, the Princess is unfortunately ill this morning,” Kaltain said sadly. “I don’t think the food agreed with her system last night.”

“Oh, how awful!” Celaena exclaimed, her hand flying up to her collarbone. “I do hope she gets better soon.” Dorian had to admit, Celaena played the part of a court lady exceptionally well.

“Yes, well the healers say she’ll recover soon,” Kaltain said brightly, “But it’s quite fortunate that I found you both here, because I had hoped to talk to the Prince about some matters of state.” Kaltain said smiling, her led lips curling over her white teeth.

Dorian instantly wanted to hear nothing if what Kaltain had to say. “Ah well I’m currently occupied with-”

“Oh, nonsense, darling,” Celaena said, her voice lighter than it had been seconds before, her thick accent weaving in easily with her words. “We weren’t discussing important matters anyway,” she said pointedly, “besides I simply must get Captain Westfall’s opinion on the new velvet curtains in my room,” she said, slipping her arm from Dorian’s, “they seem a bit heavy to me but I always like to hear a second opinion.”

Chaol, for his part, looked bewildered for a few moments before he gave Celaena a half smile and offered her his arm. She took it and waved them off, her voice fading around the corner of the hedge. Then Dorian was alone with Kaltain Rompier.

She turned toward him and clasped her hand in front of her, the smile on her face a little stiff. “Shall we walk?”

Dorian nodded and offered his arm, “of course.”

~

“Guard positions stay the same, but different men switch out after five hours of work.” Chaol said, listing information off the top of his head.

“What about the protection surrounding the King?”

“The King is watched and guarded twenty-four hours a day, with the men switching off every six hours.” He said, tugging her down another pathway in the hedges, “usually the toughest soldiers are stationed to protect the King.” 

“Fine.” Celaena said, her mind working through various ideas. “And when can I manage to get him alone?”

“That’s almost impossible.” Chaol said, “there are always people around the King. Your best option is to ambush him when he has an emergency meeting with his council late at night. You can finish him off as he’s making his way toward the council room.”

“Good to know.” Celaena said, her gaze trained ahead. Now that there was no one around to see her she had dropped her facade and was back to her calm, impassive demeanor. Chaol felt unease seep into his bones at her apathetic air, she was too cold and unfeeling for his liking and every time he looked at her he saw a threat.

“I will be inspecting your ‘equipment’ later,” he stated evenly, “and I will put it in a secure location once I’ve looked it over.”

“Why? You don’t trust me Captain?” Celaena had cocked her head to the side and took on a mocking tone. She knew well enough how he felt about her, especially when she was anywhere near Dorian.

“No, I really don’t.”

“Fair enough,” the assassin said shrugging. “But I need them tonight.”

“For what?” Chaol hissed, his apprehension rising at the prospect of an assassin snooping around the palace at night.

“Because I need to survey the corridors and hallways obviously.” Celaena said evenly. The lie slid off her tongue easily as Chaol regarded her with suspicion. He huffed and nodded silently, avoiding her gaze and he walked her forward. “I’m not aiming to get you to like me, Chaol,” she surmised, her aquamarine eyes boring into him. “I just want to finish this job and leave.”

“Good,” Chaol stated, turning another corner. “Because that’s exactly what I want too.”

~

The palace had finally gone near silent as the time crept toward midnight. The candles burned low and the shadows danced long and oppressive on the walls as Celaena crept across the dark floor.

She felt the comforting weight of the blades strapped to her thighs and the knives hooked onto her belt. It had only been a few days but without her weapons near her she felt naked, vulnerable, and now that she had them back in her possession, she was ready to do her job. Celaena stopped in the shadows and pulled out the piece of parchment she had scribbled all over earlier.

It was a map that pointed to the places Celaena had to draw Wyrdmarks in order to counteract, and eventually negate the wards. The first stop was right in front of the ballroom doors. The assassin stuffed the paper back into the pocket of her cloak as deftly as she could and pulled out one of her throwing knives.

Celaena took a deep breath and slashed the knife across the back of her left hand, biting back the hiss of pain that built in her throat. Blood welled up from the gash as Celaena pulled off her gloves with her teeth and traced her fingers in the blood. She pulled the edge of the rug back and began to draw the wyrdmark onto the gray stone floor. 

She had realized earlier that in order to really make the wyrdmarks work, she needed to offer something up in exchange, and since she wanted to use the magic that ran in her veins it was only fair she used her blood to draw the marks. She traced the diamond shape of the wyrdmark and then the half circle in the center, before drawing the two two lines that branched off in the middle. 

Once that was finished she shifted to the other side of the doors and drew the same mark on the floor. She felt the hum of foreign energy stir deep in her gut as she drew the mark, old magic reacting and rising as she completed her picture. Celaena then lightly pressed a bandage to her bleeding hand and hurried down the corridor, already off to her next target. 

Hours passed and the assassin didn’t know how long she had been tracing wyrdmarks into the castle walls, but she felt a bone deep tiredness by the time she made it to her tenth target. Her bones ached and she felt the hum of wild magic in her veins and fingertips; she couldn’t draw all her marks in one night because the overuse of wild magic would burn her up from the inside out. Celaena straightened and wrapped the bandage more tightly on her sore and stinging hand. She would have to start at this target tomorrow night and hopefully be finished with drawing the marks by the end of the week. 

Then there was a shuffling of footsteps behind her and Celaena immediately flattened herself behind the nearest suit of armor. A shadowed figure appeared at the other end of the hallway and meandered forward, their steps quiet but confident. As Celaena watched the figure approach it occurred to her that their steps were too easy, too calm. With a jolt Celaena realized that this person had been following her across the palace, probably noting where and what she was drawing on the stone.

_No witnesses_ , a voice whispered in her head, and Celaena slipped out one of the short blades silently and waited for the figure to get closer. The second the figure passed by the suit of armor Celaena ducked out of the shadows and slammed the figure against the nearest wall. The person under the cloak yelped quietly in surprise as Celaena twisted the front of their robes, pressing her blade against their throat. 

“I really can’t afford to have you snooping after me,” Celaena whispered as she pressed the blade closer. But to her surprise, the figure laughed low in their throat, the sound distinctly feminine. 

“I was curious about your real identity Lady Safyr.” The figure said in the common tongue, her voice rich and low with a slight accent. 

“Who are you?” Celaena hissed, pressing closer. The figure put their hands up placatingly.

“Allow me to show you.” The figure pulled back their hood and revealed dark skin and black braids coiled into a bun at the back of her head. Celaena blinked in surprise as she stared into familiar almond eyes.

“ _Princess Nehemia?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More things are happening!
> 
> Also we're sorry about the super late update guys, the last two weeks have been brutal. Luckily though we have this chapter done and the next one on the way. Thanks for sticking with the fic for so long and keep sending in those comments/kudos because we both crave validation. 
> 
> -Kyra and Rae


	12. Chapter 12

Even though it had been a decade since Celaena had fled Eyllwe, a part of her felt the strong urge to bow to the Princess, _her _Princess.__

__She didn’t, instead she pulled the knife away, showing only in this that she respected the Eyllwe royal. Unlike the other courtiers in this horrid glass monstrosity._ _

__Nehemia tilted her head, her gaze curious as she regarded the assassin and the blade in her hand. Celaena suddenly regretted putting her weapon away, along with any advantage she had; the way Nehemia was looking at her - she wasn’t threatened at all and she made sure Celaena knew it._ _

__Celaena licked her lips at the tension filled air, Nehemia was either going to kill her right here and dump her body outside the palace walls, or she was going to beat her in hand-to-hand combat and turn her in to the palace guard, effectively ruining her commission. She didn’t know which possibility was worse._ _

__“What are you doing here?” She asked the Princess, her voice low and dangerous._ _

__Nehemia cocked an eyebrow at her and crossed her arms. “I could ask you the same thing, _Lady Safyr_.” Nehemia took a step forward, and despite any laws of propriety Celaena might feel deep down in her soul, she held her ground, and the Princess and her were nose to nose. “But we both know that’s not your real name.”_ _

__Celaena took a deep breath, “what do you want?”_ _

__“A truth for a truth,” Nehemia said, her light brown eyes intense. “Ask me a question and I will answer honestly, and you give me the same transparency in return.”_ _

__“What if I just knock you out right here and make it look like this was just an elaborate dream?”_ _

__Nehemia scoffed, “I am trained by the masters of Ellywe. You might be skilled, but you have never fought someone like me.” Her eyes held a glimmer of provocation, and the impulsive, reckless side of Celaena wanted to rise to meet it; to see how Nehemia fought, how she moved, how it would feel to challenge the Princess of a nation._ _

__But she knew that a fight couldn’t happen in the middle of the palace hallway, especially when her hand stung from hours of bleeding._ _

__Celaena huffed, “Ask me anything.” She said._ _

__“What is your real name?”_ _

__“Celaena Sardothien.” The princess’s eyebrows raised ever so slightly, but she didn’t say anything further. “Why are you in Adarlan?” The assassin asked tentatively._ _

__“The King demanded my presence in order to quell the rising rebellion.” Nehemia answered, then: “you’re no Lady, so what are you?”_ _

__“A hired assassin.” Her voice had gone flat as she regarded the Princess cautiously. “Why were you following me?”_ _

__“You were drawing Wyrdmarks,” Nehemia’s eyes glittered as she spoke, “no one knows the art anymore and if you’re using them inside the palace I can only guess you’re trying to break the wards.” Celaena sucked in a harsh breath, and slipped her knife into her hand, the blade glimmering in the low light. “Relax assassin,” the princess said, rolling her eyes, “I have no ill will towards magic users.”_ _

__There was a moment where Celaena remembered her early years in Adarlan. She remembered the raids; how armed guards would drag innocent men, women, and children out of their homes and be executed there on the street for having magic. How spellbooks were burned in massive fires in the city square, how the healing arts suffered because so many of them were magic users, how Lysandra was deathly afraid of even mentioning her powers for fear that a stray soldier might hear. All those lives, and for what? To sate the fears of a choice few? Regardless of her feelings, it was dangerous that Nehemia had an idea about Celaena’s abilities._ _

__“Forgive me if I don’t take you at your word,” the assassin said drily._ _

__Nehemia shrugged, “Fine, but I have one more question.” Her eyes slid back to Celaena’s, and the assassin could see her thinking long and hard. “Why are you here, Celaena?”_ _

__Celaena opened her mouth to reply but then stopped. What was she to say? That she was commissioned by the Prince to stay in the palace? That she was trying to destroy the wards around the palace? That she was trying to pay off her debt to Arobynn? All true, but not the right truths._ _

__Nehemia was a Princess desperate for the salvation of her people, and this entire thing could be a farce, and palace guards could arrest her at any moment. Celaena saw two choices before her, and after spending so long in the dark she didn’t know what choice was right. But Celaena stared at Nehemia, saw the earnestness in her gaze, and couldn’t stop the words she said next._ _

__“I’m here to kill the King.”_ _

__Nehemia straightened her back and… smiled. Grinned so large that Celaena saw the full expanse of her white teeth and the tension eased from her shoulders._ _

__“I am not your enemy Celaena Sardothien,” the Princess said._ _

__“Hang on,” Celaena inundated, holding up a hand. “I haven’t asked my last question.”_ _

__“Then ask.”_ _

__“You said the King brought you here to quell the rebellion,” the assassin said. “So, are you the the rebels’ figurehead?”_ _

__Nehemia spread her hands, “My dear assassin” she said sweetly, “I lead the rebellion.”_ _

__

____

~

Dorian couldn’t sleep.

He sat in the nook of his window, gazing out through the glass at the city down below. Even at this time, lights still twinkled at him from where they lit up streets and houses and squares in his father’s city.

Soon to be his city.

If all went according to plan.

He’d admit to only himself that he was feeling anxious about it all. While he held very little love for his father, a part of him still felt the guilt of hiring Celaena to end his life. For all his faults, the King did raise him; sat him on his lap as a child and told him about naval strategy, cheered for him when he won his first fencing tournament, gifted him his first hunting dog, but he also knew what kind of person the King really was. How he had razed cities and villages to the ground in his quest for world control. Dorian knew it was for the best, one life as payment for the thousands upon thousands his father took to build his empire.

And this was partly the reason why Dorian couldn’t sleep. It all ate up at him, knowing that the world will become a much different, yet much safer place in a matter of weeks. Both anticipation and anxiety flowed through his veins, keeping him awake these past few days.

A book lay discarded on the floor where he’d thought to read it but realised he hadn’t had the energy to even open the front cover. So he simply sat and stared out the window, his mind always coming back to thoughts of Celaena and how she’ll execute her plan, to Chaol and the danger he’d face in secretly working against the King, to himself and the worries of not being a good enough King, and - finally - Kaltain and what she’d said to him that morning.

“I know you are planning something, Prince. All I’m asking is for a little part of the winnings.”

The words echoed in his head.

But most of all: _a little _.__

__Dorian couldn’t help but snort._ _

__She didn’t want just a little part of what would remain after the King’s death, she wanted to be _Queen _.___ _

____Their talk had started off simple, the two engaged in light conversation as they walked around the gardens, steering clear of the rest of the court even with such harmless conversation topics. Then they had passed a row of rose bushes and Kaltain had pulled away from the Prince and stepped closer to admire the flowers. They were blood red, similar in shade to her tight-fitting dress and lips._ _ _ _

____Dorian would not deny that he found the Lady Kaltain to be physically attractive; she was fair-skinned with sleek black hair and onyx eyes, with carefully tailored dresses and shoes made to accentuate her curves. He would be lying if he said she wasn’t attractive, but it was the court-trained airheadedness that put him off, as was the case with most of the potential wives his mother presented to him. That was the one thing he could not stomach in an arranged marriage; having a wife that could not think or act on her own behalf, one that never had an intellectual thought, one that could not enjoy the same things he did. Dorian could not have an arranged marriage, full stop. He wanted someone to love, and that was something he could never have._ _ _ _

____“I’m not going to waste more time chatting about things insignificant compared to what’s brewing on your part, your Highness,” Kaltain surprised him in saying. She continued admiring the roses, perhaps even inspecting them, scrutinising them in the way that one would a painting._ _ _ _

____“I’m afraid you have confused me, my Lady,” Dorian replied, feigning ignorance._ _ _ _

_____Suddenly, Kaltain ripped a flower from the bush and held it up to the light, the stem jagged from where it was torn from the bush, which looked odd in her soft, unmarred hands.  
Dorian frowned ever so slightly. “You don’t have to play dumb with me.” She said simply, “You know exactly why you and I are speaking,” she seemed to scold, yet she still retained a faint smile on her lips. A show for anyone daring to look over at the pair.  
Kaltain was smart. Dorian knew this, but it was still jarring to see her personality change completely now that they were alone, and he admired that in her - the action giving him hope that, like Kaltain, perhaps not all the women in this court were so airheaded._ _ _

____He dropped all pretenses. “You want what any woman in this court wants; the crown.”_ _ _ _

____“You are correct, yes,” she confirmed, dipping her head slightly. She returned to the rose bushes, perhaps finding more to pluck from the gardens. Mother would not be happy. “But I’m not going to pretend to be madly in love with you - I would not subject myself to such debasement - it’s a purely political arrangement, nothing more, nothing less.” She turned and met his gaze then. Her eyes were such a dark brown they were almost black, and they burned with a determination he had rarely seen at court. “I know you are planning something, Prince. All I’m asking is for a little part of the winnings.”_ _ _ _

____He had considered her proposal, but it had still bothered him. “While your offer seems fair, can you really blame me if I want something more, from someone else?”_ _ _ _

____The Lady let out a breath and considered her single rose, not having found any others that took her fancy. “I knew you would say that,” she said. “But I’d have to admit that a small part of me feels the same way. However, we the well-born have to put that aside for the sake of status and power, don’t you agree, your Highness?”_ _ _ _

____Suddenly overcome with the weight of his soon reign as King, Dorian could only dip his head in a nod._ _ _ _

____“I don’t need an answer right now,” Kaltain continued. She stepped over to him and handed him the rose she took. “Just consider my offer, and find me again when you’ve made up your mind.”_ _ _ _

____And with that, she had left._ _ _ _

____In the dark of night, Dorian looked over to the same rose, now stuck in a pitcher atop his dresser._ _ _ _

____On the one hand, it was only a marriage, a simple contract between two agreeing parties - but on the other hand, how long could he stomach being bound forever to someone he held no love for. It would mean the death of his soul._ _ _ _

____But maybe he’d have to chose that death for the good of his kingdom._ _ _ _

____ _ _

______ _ _

~

There weren’t many things in this world that could shock Celaena Sardothien. She had trained with martial arts masters in the Red Desert, had bargained with pirates in Skulls Bay, fought half a dozen mercenaries while drunk at a bar, and done so many things, that the prospect of surprising her was almost nonexistent. However, as Celaena stared at Nehemia, Princess and leader of the Rebellion, she found that she was legitimately taken aback.

“The King is not aware of course,” the Princess said, “he believes that without their princess, the people of Eyllwe will submit to his reign. Little does he know of the resolve my people have.”

“Why are you telling me all of this?” Celaena asked, the two watching each other in the dark of the hallway.

Nehemia considered the other girl for a while. The assassin had no idea what the princess was thinking but whilst Nehemia was silent, Celaena noticed the similarities and differences between them. They both wore masks in this castle, all to see their country freed, wearing absent smiles and eyes that crafted a slow murder for the airheaded nobles around them.

“We are alike, are we not?” Nehemia observed. She began to move from her place against the wall, slowly stepping a circle around Celaena as she spoke. “We are both women of Eyllwe,” she listed. “We both wish to see the end of the king’s reign. The only difference is…” Celaena repressed her shiver as the princess passed behind her. “You’re doing this for coin and not the welfare of your kingdom.” Nehemia stopped in front of the assassin, a look of disapproval on her face. Celaena bunched her fists.

“Oh, get over yourself,” she hissed. “I don’t owe Ellywe anything.”

Nehemia’s nostrils flared in agitation, “do you not care at all for the welfare of your people? Your fellow men?”

“Why should I care? What has Ellywe ever done for me?”

Nehemia shook her head, her eyes showing a combination of bewilderment and annoyance. “I cannot understand how someone could have so little loyalty as you.”

“Loyalty is a burden,” Celaena said, looking Nehemia in the eye. “It chains you to a person or a cause with no way out. I’m not interested in loyalty or honor or faith.” Celaena sat back on her heels as she regarded Nehemia, “I care about things that are real. Money is real. Therefore, it’s the only thing that matters to me.”

The two women regarded each other from opposite ends of the hall, not breaking eye contact with one another. Celaena regarded her coolly while fighting her slowly rising temper. The princess, however, seemed endlessly calm and patient, which only served to agitate Celaena further. 

She locked eyes with Nehemia and the determination there, the righteousness and the will of iron the Princess held inside herself. She believed in her cause, and she believed in her country. She was dedicated and concerned in a way that Celaena never was, and might never be, but even then they had the same goal, which meant something.

“Look I don’t give a damn about what you think of me and I don’t care why you’re fighting for what you are,” Celaena stated, “all I know is that you and I? We want the same thing.”

“Do we? Because it seems to me that we are fighting for very different things.”

“We both want the King dead, Princess,” She said, clasping her hands behind her back, “so how about a proposition?”

Nehemia cocked her head to the side, her eyes narrowed in suspicion but underneath that was a glimmer of interest. “What are you suggesting?”

“I’m saying that we should be allies for real. We both want the same end, so why not?”

“What is in it for you?”

“Obviously, I’m getting paid,” Celaena said shrugging, “and you can free your people. All you need to do is meet with my benefactor.”

“And who is that exactly?” Nehemia asked, her expression searching.

“I’ll only introduce you if you say yes.” This was new for Celaena, offering a bargain rather than taking matters into her own hands, but it was also a huge risk. Nehemia could still be a spy, could still be working for the King or one of his council members, but Celaena felt deep in her bones that she could trust her. They both had too much at stake to do this job alone. So, Celaena held out her arm. An offering. 

“What do you say?” She asked.

Nehemia regarded her in silence, her chestnut eyes were thoughtful and seemed to run through countless scenarios before flicking to Celaena and seeming to come to a conclusion. Nehemia reached out, clasping Celaena’s forearm. 

“Deal.”

~

Lysandra clutched her robe closer to her shoulders as she gazed out of the second story window of the simple townhouse. The sky had turned a deep violet and glimmered with thousands of stars that winked at her across the night. Lysandra had always loved the stars; had loved staring at them as a child stuck in her mother’s small house. It was the only respite she had because of how poor her family had been. 

Now she was swathed in red and blue silks and fed the best meals and wore the best makeup. If her mother saw her now she’d comment on how well she had done for herself “especially for a dirty shapeshifter” she’d add. Even if her silk dresses and expensive makeup were a prison. 

There was a soft snore to her left and her gaze fell on the King of Assassins. Arobynn Hamel lay sprawled across the massive bed, naked, and sated in the middle of the room, the sheets pooled around his feet. 

Sometimes he would steal her away to his townhouse away from the Withering District, paying Clarisse an outrageous amount to have her all to himself for a few days. He would lavish her with gifts and extravagant meals; he give her expensive jewelry, books, pieces of art, and have his chefs cook the best dinners consisting of roasted lamb with mint sauce, creamy mashed potatoes, sauteed vegetables, shepards pie, macarons. And then at night he would use her body for hours, sometimes as roughly as he could, and then lie in bed content, leaving her panting and tired with a sick feeling in her stomach.

Lysandra hated Arobynn Hamel. 

She hated his auburn hair and sly silver eyes and his fake charm. She knew that he was mostly using her because he wanted to keep Celaena in line; he was threatening his favorite student every time he came to Lysandra’s quarters and she hated him for it and a small part of her resented Celaena for putting her in this position. She had no say in her own life, and it was infuriating.

Slowly, she turned away from his sleeping form and instead wandered through the house, tracing her fingers over the smooth walls. Part of her idly wondered what would happen if she shifted into a bird and flew away, across the ocean, and to another country far away from Adarlan and all its hatred. Then she remembered Clarisse and her sharp nails and cruel mouth and shook her head; fantasizing about freedom was the only kind of freedom she’d have in this country, and she would take what she could get. 

Lysandra meandered down the hallway then paused in the doorway of Arobynn’s study, the moonlight glinting off his cherry wood desk. Lysandra walked around the small room, gazing at the many books glinting on the shelves. Some were novels or philosophical memoirs, but there were also leather ledgers full of past business deals and finished commissions from his lucrative business of assassinating. There had to be hundreds, dating back to twenty years ago, around the time Arobynn started the guild. 

She padded towards his desk, idly tracing the carvings of leaves and flowers decorating the desktop before her eyes fell on an open book. Another ledger, only this one was open to a specific page. Lysandra pulled the ledger towards her and frowned at the writing; it was a log, detailing monthly payments made to a person named “End” for two years. 

_What on earth is Arobynn making payments for? _Lysandra thought in confusion. Lysandra flipped the ledger over and noted that it was bound in dark brown leather and the spine was stamped with “End” in black letters. She frowned, was it a bribe? The King of Assassins usually made quick work of his bribes. He didn’t send money every month to anyone he was trying to persuade, he was hiding something, and he was paying a lot of money to keep it hidden.__

__Lysandra carefully moved the book back into place where it was before and slipped out of the study quietly. Whatever Arobynn Hamel was hiding, whatever he wanted to bury, she would find out what it was._ _

__And use it to end him._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good god this update took forever.
> 
> Sorry about the super late posting guys, we both got swamped with exams and final projects. Hopefully we might have a more regular writing schedule now that school is out for the summer. Again, sorry about the late update but we hope you enjoyed this chapter! Leave a comment or kudos if you're so inclined.


	13. Chapter 13

Every single Blackbeak clan had arrived at the Ferian Gap three days ago, following Manon and her thirteen across the Wastes towards their destination. The Ferian Gap was a massive canyon sitting on the western side of the White Fang Mountains, which sat on the border between the Wastes and Adarlan. The witches had set up their camps inside an abandoned fortress made up of three levels of hard black stone and one massive tower in the center. The Blackbeaks had taken the top levels of the tower for their quarters and for their Wyverns to roost, the Yellowlegs and the Bluebloods had taken the western and eastern sides of the fortress respectively. The three ironteeth witch clans had been brought together in a historic gathering, but none of them had any clue as to their true purpose there.

And there was already tension brewing amongst the clans.

Already Manon had to dissolve three different arguments and five fights because the Yellowlegs and the Bluebloods were sharing the same space as the Blackbeaks, which was driving the women of her clan mad. The Matron had judiciously doled out punishments for the brawlers, and ordered Manon to keep the Blackbeaks in line or else she would receive punishment herself for not following orders. It was a delicate balance, one Manon was trying very hard to keep, despite the fact that the other two clans seemed hell-bent on pissing her off.

In the moments there was peace between clans - which were very few - Manon liked to ride with Abraxos in the frozen skies between the mountains. The freedom brought her peace - unlike her allocated rooms that, like the other chambers of this complex, were built deep into the mountains. Every time she set foot into the place she felt the heavy rock pressing down from the ceiling, she felt the dusty and suffocating air that came sparingly from vents snaking through the mountain. She found she always longed for the breeze to raise goosebumps on her skin and breathe fresh air into her lungs. This, and the joy of being with her wyvern, were her only breaks from the feuding clans.

Today the clans had gathered in a massive underground dining hall; chatting and arguing amongst themselves as time went by. Manons eyes drifted across the massive space slowly, thoughtfully, as she surveyed the other clans. The Yellowlegs were spread out towards the middle; and they were distinguished by the sheer amount of furs they possessed as well as their clan colors, yellow and gray. All witches were trained as warriors; learning how to fight as soon as they could walk, but the Yellowlegs took it a step further, they trained from morning until night with massive claymores and broadswords and were ferocious on the battlefield. They were pure strength and force, and the human legends detailing their ferocity were not exaggerated.

At the far end sat the Bluebloods, who were by far the strangest to Manon. They were fighters just like any other witch, but they believed in doing battle for more than just sport. The Bluebloods believed in a single goddess, called the Maker, who supposedly endowed the Blueblood Matrons line with clairvoyance and other strange abilities, which is why the Matron wore a barbed iron circlet atop her head, to keep the magic under control. The Blueblood heir sat at the head of the table, her iron circlet gleaming atop her bright red hair; she was only heir so the prickly crown would only be bestowed to her once she became matron. 

The thump of boots to her left drew Manon's attention and she turned her head to look at Iskra Yellowlegs, the heir to the Yellowlegs witch clan. Iskra was tall and broad shouldered with large muscular arms and legs; she wore leather armor studded with bits of iron and steel and a long fur cloak. Her curly copper hair was pulled into a bun in the back of her head and her olive green eyes regarded Manon in a combination of amusement and condescension. 

“I was wondering when I would see the famous Blackbeak heir,” Iskra said, her fellow witches grinning behind her. 

“Hail, Heir Yellowlegs,” Manon said, her tone cold and dismissive. All she wanted to do was finish her mission here and leave with her Thirteen, she didn’t want to spend more time with the other clans than she had too. 

“That’s it?” Iskra scoffed, “that’s all you have to say? And here I thought we would have a conversation.”

“Do you want to have a conversation Iskra,” Manon said, gazing at the Yellowlegs heir impassively, “or do you want to provoke me?”

Iskra’s eyes narrowed, her smile turning feral, “Provoke you? But we are forbidden from fighting remember? Your memory is short, Heir Blackbeak.”

There was a clatter at the table as Asterin slowly stood, her eyes gleaming and her mouth pulled back into a smile that was more a snarl than anything else. “Do you actually think before you speak, Iskra? Or do you just say the first thing that comes into your head?”

Iskra turned her eyes towards Asterin, all humor gone from her face and replaced with virulent anger. “I outrank you, _Second_ ,” she spit Asterin’s title with disdain, “and you will address me as your superior.”

“I will use your rank when you show my Heir respect, _Iskra_.” Sorrel stood and put a hand on Asterin’s shoulder, but Asterin ignored her and continued on. “You’ve done nothing to earn _my_ regard, so why should I give it?”

Iskra’s nostrils flared and the witches behind her, probably her Second and Third, hissed and reached for their swords. Manon whirled and was on her feet in front of Iskra in a flash, her gold eyes narrowed in anger; the rest of the Thirteen were on their feet too, their expressions hungry for battle.

“I would think very carefully about what you do next Iskra,” Manon threatened, her silky voice low and vicious. 

The Yellowlegs Heir clenched her jaw and looked Manon up and down, her eyes burning with outrage. She opened her mouth to retort or to swear but she was interrupted by the sound of the dining hall doors opening with a loud groan. 

Every single witch turned to watch as the three Matrons strode into the room, an air of imperiousness painting their features. The witches bowed to their clan leaders and the Matrons nodded in acknowledgement; then their eyes fell on their Heirs.

“You three will come with us.” The Blueblood Matron said, “It is time for you to meet our partner.”

~

Celaena despised corsets.

She had wanted to go to the Queen’s luncheon in a simple emerald gown and green slippers, but of course her dressing maid had insisted on a more ostentatious dress. She wore a sky blue taffeta dress done in lavender trim with matching slippers. Her maid had wrestled her into a shift and corset beforehand, complaining about Celaena’s wide hips. Celaena had bit the inside of her cheek and let her maid dress her, even though she very much wanted to rip her outfit to pieces and damn it all to hell.

Dorian had noticed her sour mood when he met her outside of her rooms, offering her a quirked eyebrow. “Something wrong, my Lady?”

“I hate this dress and I also hate you,” she hissed, marching past him towards the gardens. 

Dorian hurried after her, his voice strained from trying not to laugh. “I can’t believe ruthless Celaena Sardothien is defeated by a corset and some fabric.”

Celaena shot him a glare as she moved her skirt out of the way. “Why do I have to keep going to these ridiculous parties? I should be scoping out the palace grounds and mapping out the sewer entrances,” she huffed, “not drinking tea with a bunch of court snobs.”

“You have to be able to keep up appearances,” Dorian said, mirth coloring his tone. “I don’t want anyone questioning your actual reasons for being here.”

“I think you just like seeing me in a dress,” Celaena grumbled, begrudgingly taking Dorian’s arm.

“I’m not going to deny that,” he said shrugging, “you do look rather lovely.”

Celaena turned towards him, her eyebrow quirked in question while her lips twitched with amusement. “My, what a gentleman you are,” she said in faux Adarlanian accent. Dorian snorted.

“Very funny,” they finally reached the double doors leading to the terrace and Dorian stopped just outside, looking through the glass panes at the people seated around a massive wooden table. His eyes fell on the Princess Nehemia and his lips turned into a frown, a faint crease appearing between his dark eyebrows. “Are you sure about trusting her?” He asked quietly.

Celaena nodded, her expression serious again. “She has dozens of resources and connections that you do not yet have. She could help me with my job and it provides you with a strong future alliance.”

“Mmhm,” Dorian grunted quietly, his expression doubtful. Three days ago Celaena had sat both the Princess and Dorian down in an unused war room and had them create terms for their agreement. Nehemia had been shocked to find out that Dorian had ordered Celaena’s commission originally.

“The Crown Prince is your benefactor?!” Nehemia said incredulously. Dorian’s mouth fell open in shock; Nehemia had spoken in common tongue perfectly, with only a trace amount of her Ellywe accent showing.

“I thought you hadn’t learned Common yet!” Dorian barked, his mouth hanging open.

Nehemia scoffed, “Of course I can speak common, it’s terribly easy to learn.” She said, “and it was terribly easy to fool your court into thinking I was an ignorant Ellywian.”

She smiled casually, but there was a hint of superiority in her brown eyes. Dorian bristled in indignation, “How exactly am I supposed to trust her?” he asked celaena in annoyance.

“Don’t be petulant, Dorian, you both want the same thing,” she said looking between them. “You both want me to finish this job, but there’s more to it than just regicide.” She pointed at Dorian then, “you need more allies within your court.” Then she pointed at Nehemia, “and you need the same thing. Both of you are incredibly independent but you can’t do what you plan alone.” She crossed her arms then. “You need each other.”

The Prince of Adarlan sighed through his nose and sat back in his chair, his gaze fixed on Nehemia as he considered Celaena’s proposal. Nehemia, however, flat out scowled at the Prince with her arms folded. Celaena worried only slightly that the alliance would not go through.

“You can forgive me if I’m a little reluctant to place the fate of my kingdom into the hands of the son of a tyrant,” Nehemia stated, then shifted her gaze to Celaena. “You know how demonic his younger brother is, how do I know that the crown prince is not the same?”

Celaena kept her face neutral but was taken aback by the question. It was easy to forget the crimes young Prince Hollin Havilliard committed before he was sent to an academy in the north, but Celaena vividly remembered the beatings of his servants and how he spat on the grounds of the poorer districts of Rifthold. Then she looked to Dorian with his soft, calloused hands that had held hers at a ball two years ago, and his sapphire blue eyes that had been full of mischief and amusement back then - a stark contrast to Prince Hollin’s onyx black that she had been told stared emotionlessly as he stirpped a servant and proceeded to whip them across the back.

No, she couldn’t believe Dorian to hurt a soul.

Yet here he summoned her here to kill his own father.

 _I’m here for my commission and that’s it,_ she told herself. She wouldn’t let herself care about it.

“I am not my brother,” Dorian started, a fire burning blue in his eyes. “If I were I would have killed my father already, taken the throne, and displayed his severed head on a spike before the front gates for everyone to see,” he said, his voice rising with passion.

“So why haven’t you,” Nehemia did not ask, rather accused, Dorian.

“Why would I? I’m not a brute.” He let out a harsh breath as he continued, “I have to do this tactfully and discreetly. Otherwise I won’t garner any favor from the other noble Houses.” Nehemia’s eyes narrowed and she opened her mouth to say something before Celaena found herself interrupting.

“I trust him,” she said, turning her gaze from Dorian to meet Nehemia’s. “Trust from me goes a long way, Princess.”

“And do you trust me?” the princess not-asked in that same accusatory way.

“Perhaps I can learn to,“ Celaena replied honestly, “If you help us.”

Nehemia held her stare, but did not say anything. They could both do this without Dorian, just the two of them, with her skill with wyrdmarks and Celaena’s abilities with magic and blade. Dorian was simply the reason Celaena was here, he was the one holding an extremely large bag of money over her head. Any emotional attachment had been lost in a swirl of dresses at a ball of starlight, and between the sheets in a tavern bedroom.

If money had not been a major concern for Celaena, she probably would have ditched the Crown Prince by now.

Dorian spoke up. “While I am...bothered...by your deceit of my court, I can understand why you did it.” Nehemia turned her gaze over to him, and saw that his eyes were full of honesty. “With my father dead, I wish to set all colonised kingdoms free and I hope to undo every heinous act he has performed in the name of power.” His stare moved to Celaena then. “I’m the Crown Prince, and it is my duty to make things right. I’m putting my own life on the line for this.”

Celaena looked to Nehemia and she could imagine what was running through her mind. _Son of a snake. Son of a tyrant. Son of a conqueror. Son of a murderer. Son of a dictator._

_Like father like son._

To Celaena’s surprise, however, Nehemia nodded to the Prince; in respect? In agreement? She wasn’t sure, but it was a step in the right direction. It would aid Dorian, when he ascended the throne, to have a powerful friend in Eyllwe.

Celaena just hoped she’d be getting paid extra now.

“Step one is to break the wards, is it not?” Nehemia prompted, seemingly okay with Dorian’s involvement now.

“Yes,” the assassin confirmed. “We just need to decide when, where, and how.”

“I will assist you with the wyrdmarks,” Nehemia offered. “You will need as many hands as possible to inscribe the marks all over this palace, and you need someone to teach you to draw them properly.” She gave Celaena a pointed look as she uttered the latter comment.

Raising an eyebrow, Dorian asked, “Can’t I help with that too? So I’m doing _something_ other than covering for you two.” Celaena caught the sliver of irritation in his voice. But he was right; his only job at the moment was to stand around and look pretty as if nothing suspicious was happening.

Nehemia opened her mouth to speak but Celaena spoke first. “You aren’t magically blooded, the wyrdmarks won’t hold any power.” The Prince looked defeated at this but he hid it behind a nod, meanwhile Nehemia glanced to Celaena then looked away again. “We’ll meet again soon then,” the assassin asked the Princess. “To practice the wyrdmarks.”

The Princess nodded her agreement. “Two days time,” she arranged. “We’ll also need to set a date to break the wards, might I suggest the Solstice Ball?” While Celaena loved parties, she dreaded the thought of being corseted up to be paraded about like a prize dog; she hoped that there would be a lot of wine served at least.

She had directed this question at Dorian, to which he replied, “For what reason?”

“It’s the longest night of the year, the time where the magic will be stretched the thinnest,” Celaena wondered aloud. “The wards will be weak then, but how will we be able to cover the whole palace with wyrdmarks in one day?”

“You won’t have to,” Dorian answered, his words surprising her. “You can mark the castle over time but make sure to inscribe the last few on the Winter Solstice itself.”

“He is right,” Nehemia replied, an almost unnoticeable smile on her lips. “We’ll set to work as soon as you can get your marks right.” She sent a teasing glance at Celaena.

“Well,” Celaena concluded, “all set?”

The two royals before her nodded in unison.

Ever since that day Dorian had been meeting with Nehemia secretly in one of his fathers’ neglected council chambers. The two of them drew up maps, traded information, discussed strategy, and spent long swaths of time arguing. Celaena knew that Nehemia still didn’t trust Dorian fully, and Chaol was especially suspicious of the Princess of Ellywe, and he was furious with both Celaena and Dorian when they told him about the alliance after the fact. Dorian had spent a full two hours trying to calm him down, but they needed this alliance, and Chaol’s over-protectiveness would have prevented that.

The Captain was currently stationed in the garden, quietly observing the nobles on the patio, his black uniform finely pressed and accenting his rugged face. The Prince gazed at him for a few moments before he turned towards Celaena again, his expression open and confused. He touched Celaena’s knuckles lightly with his fingers, and leaned over to whisper in her ear. “Why didn’t you tell me you could use magic?” He asked quietly.

Celaena turned towards him; she fought to keep her face impassive but there was a note of remorse in her blue-green eyes. “You know why, Dorian.”

The Prince swallowed and nodded in understanding, but Celaena couldn’t help but feel a twinge of regret. Dorian had been nothing but honest with her ever since he gave her this job, and even before that when they spent all night together at the Starlight Ball.

 _His father ordered the execution of thousands of people,_ a voice whispered in her head. _Why should I have trusted him with my greatest secret? _Celaena instantly squashed her disappointment. She wouldn’t apologize for putting her best interest first. Not ever.__

__Celaena pushed her shoulders back, plastered on her best smile, and reached for the garden door. “Now let’s go charm the Queens Court.” Celaena said, slipping into her courtly facade once more._ _

____

~

Manon sat back in her chair, her expression impassive as Duke Perrington explained his plans to the Matrons.

The Matrons and their Heirs had holed themselves up in a council room with the Duke and his partner, Lord Lochan, in order to hear his treatise. The Duke was a large, broad chested man, with thinning dark red hair and a matching beard. His clothes were finely tailored and he spoke with a kind of self-assuredness that Manon had never seen a man possess before.

He held himself like a King, and Manon instantly disliked him.

“I intend to use my weapon to raze dissenting kingdoms to the ground,” he finished, “with my King’s approval of course.” 

“What exactly is this weapon?” Iskra asked, her head cocked to one side in interest. “Is it magic based?”

The Duke smiled conspiratorially, “Yes, it is the combination of human genius and magical ability. It’s results are quite devastating.”

“I thought your country didn’t like magic users,” Petrah Blueblood questioned. “And if that is the case, how could your King stand to use a magical weapon? Much less ally himself with witches.”

The Duke sat back in his chair, folding his hands in front of him. “My King is a terrifying and competent ruler,” he stated, “but he does not always see the bigger picture. Magic users can be used as a means to an end, and you and your clans are an impressive force of strength and power.” He nodded his head. “An alliance with our country and your clans would truly turn us into a world power.”

“And what about us? What will you give us in return?” The Blackbeak Matron asked, her amber eyes gleaming hungrily.

“You are in a constant of war with the Crochan Witches correct?” The Duke asked, “If you ally yourselves with Adarlan, my King will give you the weapon, so that you may destroy them and claim total control of the Wastes once and for all.” He finished with a wave of his hand.

The Matrons eyes glimmered with interest; the war with the Crochans was centuries long and seemingly neverending. The Ironteeth witches were fierce warriors but the Crochans had vast numbers and were equally dedicated to battle. The Ironteeth and the Crochans had been at a stalemate for hundreds of years, without either side giving an inch, and if the weapon Perrington was talking about was as powerful as he said, than it could turn the tide of the war, and give the Ironteeth total control of the Wastes forever. Manon would have to admit, the proposition was incredibly enticing.

The Matrons made eye contact with each other and nodded in unison, their decision made. “We will work with you Duke,” the Yellowlegs Matron growled with her rough voice.

The Duke and Lord Lochan smiled, their grins sickly sweet, and reached out to shake hands with the witches. Manon rose and grasped their forearms in alliance, vowing to take a long bath to clean off whatever human filth rubbed off on her hand.

Lord Lochan gazed at Manon with obvious interest, his slate-gray eyes roving over her figure slowly. Manon squeezed his arm hard enough to bruise and he winced. 

“Watch yourself human,” she threatened quietly. Lord Lochan rubbed his arm subtly and instead of cowering he smirked at her, his self-satisfied gaze boring into hers.

“It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance Heir Blackbeak,” he said sweetly, bowing lightly for effect. Manon narrowed her eyes at the Lord, tempted to snap his neck before someone gripped her shoulder harshly. 

“If you make a fool out of the Blackbeak Clan, so help me Manon I will make you suffer,” the Blackbeak matron hissed in her ear. Manon clenched her jaw, and stepped away, her back stiff.

“There is, of course, the matter of who shall lead the assault,” the Duke said casually, clasping his hands behind his back. “One of the Ironteeth Heirs should be suitable to command the legion as Wing Leader. The witch who will head the fight against the Crochans.”

“Duke Perrington and I thought the best way to determine who won the spot of Wing Leader was the witch who proved themselves in a war game of sorts,” Lord Lochan added.

“A war game?” Iskra asked, her eyes gleaming with interest. “You want us to battle it out amongst ourselves to determine who will lead the assault on the Crochan Kingdom?”

“Precisely,” the Duke said. “The Heir and coven who wins the war games assumes command of the other clans and the authority of Wing Leader. I suggest the games be held in a few weeks time, allowing your covens time to train for the games.”

“I think it is a marvelous idea,” Petrah Blueblood stated, her smile lighting up her face. “A battle of that magnitude would be glorious.”

“I agree,” Manon said, her chin tilted up. She locked eyes with the Blackbeak Matron, and her grandmother sent her a clear message in her dark amber eyes. Manon would be Wing Leader, anything less would be a failure. She squared her shoulders and prepared herself for the training she would put the Thirteen through tomorrow; she will claim the title of Wing Leader and lead the assault on the Crochans. 

She would bring the Blackbeaks glory in battle and in name, otherwise her life meant absolutely nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's chapter 13! Leave a comment of kudos if you so wish :)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit guys we are so sorry this update took so long we are such little shits. But we introduce another player in the game in this chap, and we hope you like it!

Elide Lochan awoke to the sound of dripping water.

She sat up slowly, rubbing her aching back lightly with her fingers. Her small bed didn’t do much to aid her sleep, and it especially agitated her right leg, which stung with pain underneath her thin linen coverlet. 

Her room was small, about the size of a closet, with only enough room for a small wooden frame bed, a basket of clothes, and a jug of cold water. Elide figured her Uncle Vernon gave her the smallest room in the fortress probably out of spite or just the pure desire of seeing her suffer. She reasoned that was the only reason he kept her around anyways. 

Elide rubbed at her temples, and bit back a frustrated groan; she was cold, couldn’t sleep, and the nearest fireplace was two floors up, on the other side of the tower. Elide could make the trip up, but with her ruined ankle it would make walking up those several flights of stairs a miserable task. She felt the frustration and despair start to build in her gut, a crushing wave that threatened to overtake her, washing her away with the intensity. Elide clenched her jaw and pushed back, humming her mother’s lullaby faintly to calm herself down. Elide slid out of bed, slipped on her simple flats, picked up her blankets, and limped out of her closet-room in the direction of heat.

Despite her ratty clothes and dingy room, she was still the heir to House Lochan and she would behave as such. 

The fortress was made to be used in times of war; it was made with rough dark stone and the faded and stained banners still hung from the walls. Elide found that Morath was cold, not just the temperature, but the overall atmosphere, as if the place had been living once but was now an empty skeleton, crumbling and barren, with only the echo of life rattling through its once proud halls. It also didn’t help that there were witches living in the upper levels.

Elide had heard stories from her Nan before she left her tower, before Vernon took her away and made her into a servant and ruined her leg. She used to say, _The Ironteeth Witches are not human,_ her gray eyes intense, _if you ever met one they would rip your heart out and have you watch as they ate it. They are monsters._ Now she was living in the same fortress with an entire army of them.

Funnily enough she wasn’t so much scared of the witches as much as she was of her Uncle making a deal with them. Vernon Lochan had told her he would take her in after her parents died, that he would take care of her, but then he sent her to live in a tower for ten years with only her Nan for company. Then when he had come to get her on her nineteenth birthday he had “accidentally” pushed her down a flight of stairs that had lead to her broken right leg that had never healed right. He had tried to break the rest of her too, still tried too every day, and she could do nothing but try to live. Live and escape from this hell hole.

Elide finally managed to limp her way into the small servant common area, clutching her blankets tightly to her chest. The room was small, but there were a handful of wooden chairs and a small fireplace, which had burned to glowing embers now. Elide dumped her blankets onto the closest chair and picked up the flint rocks from atop the brick mantel, she then dropped three logs into the space and then struck the rocks against each other. It took several tries but the wood finally caught fire against the flint rock spark and lit up against the darkness of the room. 

Elide sighed with relief and spread her blankets over her chair, arranging them so that they wrapped around her body when she sat down. She nestled into her chair as comfortably as she could as the fire crackled and popped in front of her. Elide started at the dancing flames until her eyelids grew heavy and she dozed off. 

She dreamed of the clear summer nights in Terrasen, of her mother's’ soft black hair and her father's’ laugh, of her Nan and her gentle fingers as she dried her tears, and of feeling the cool air on her legs again. She dreamed of going back to her home, to the Lochan house, and sitting in her parents field of wildflowers, finally free to live how she wanted.

The thump of boots woke her up a few hours later.

She turned her bleary eyes toward the doorway where Vernon Lochan stood leaning against the stone frame. He blinked slowly at her, a single dark eyebrow rising on his forehead as he regarded his niece. 

“I thought I’d find you here, Elide,” he said, his tenor voice easily filling the space. He was dressed in black trousers and a violet tunic and jacket. A silver pendant hung on his neck that glinted in the low firelight. “Shouldn’t you be in your bedroom?”

“I-I was cold,” she said quietly. “This room has a fireplace.”

Vernon straightened and sauntered towards her, his gaze saccharine. “Oh my poor niece,” he said lowering his head. “How unfortunate for you.”

His tone was mocking, and his dark eyes gleamed with mirth. Elide swallowed and looked down, avoiding the eyes that reminded her so much of her father. “Please, uncle,” she whispered.

Suddenly his fingers were under her chin and they were tilting her head up to look at his face; he was smirking as he regarded her with amusement.

“Maybe if you worked, you wouldn’t be so cold.” He chuckled at that and stepped back, releasing her. “Get up, niece. You have chores you need to do.”

“But I don’t have to work for another two hours-”

“Work doesn’t stop just because you want to sleep in, Elide,” he tutted. He was admonishing her as if she were a child, as if she were less than him.

As if she wasn’t the rightful heir to his entire estate. 

“Go help the cooks prepare the morning meals.” He said, turning to leave. Then he paused in the doorway his hands in his pockets. “Oh, and Elide?” He turned back towards her, his expression wicked. “Do be careful about going to the upper levels. There are witches up there after all.”

~

“Remind me again,” Celaena said, rubbing the bridge of her nose, “how exactly am I doing this wrong?”

Nehemia sat, back straight and looked to be in physical pain as she watched Celaena painstakingly trace the lines of a Wyrdmark onto a piece of parchment. The Princess had invited Celaena into her private chambers under the guise of tea, but really she had wanted to help her perfect her use of the marks before they snuck out again tonight, but Celaena had proven to be much more out-of-practice with the art than both women initially thought.

“As I told you before,” Nehemia huffed, “the line near the center must be curved here,” she pointed towards the middle of the diamond, “and there has to be a line bisecting the diamond otherwise you’re ordering the wards to _kill_ magic users,” she picked up the piece of parchment and crushed it between her hands. “Not to free them.”

Celaena’s fingers twitched as her temper started to rear its ugly head. They had been practicing for two hours now, and Celaena hardly liked being cooped up in one place for long, especially the palace. “It looked right to me.”

“And how long has it been since you’ve studied Wyrdmarks?” Nehemia asked, quirking an eyebrow. “I know what I’m doing Celaena, all you have to do is listen.”

“That’s all I’ve been doing this morning,” Celaena growled. “Listening to you nag, and drawing.”

“Correcting isn’t nagging,” Nehemia said glaring at her. The Princess passed the assassin another piece of parchment and an ink pot. “Do it again.”

Nehemia’s words began to echo in her skull as Celaena stared blankly at the paper. She stopped seeing the Princess’s room around her and instead was back at the underground training hall in the Assassins Keep, the Princess’s voice changing to a silky baritone in her ears. 

_Do it again, Celaena,_ Arobynn coos, _break his other arm._

Celaena stares at the boy in front of her, his gray eyes burning, his cheeks tear stained, as he clutches his left arm awkwardly in his right hand. He’s just barely fifteen and Celaena has only just turned fourteen; finally starting her journey out of childhood, and Arobynn is there to see her through it. He always is. He was a fox after all, waiting for her to show her weakness, to make a mistake, before he struck.

 _Break Sam’s arm, Celaena,_ he whispered, his voice firmer now, _or I will break yours._

Celaena approaches Arobynns’ other protege, her steps even against the cold stone floor. She yanks his right arm upwards and he squeals, begs her to stop, begs her not too, but how can she show him mercy when she wouldn’t get any herself? She felt as if she was staring at herself from another plane, as if her soul was watching her body do monstrous things and could do nothing but stand back and watch.

She was afraid, she was angry, and she was sad, but when she gripped the Sam’s arm and snapped it in two, she felt nothing.

Just a gnawing emptiness.

Sam slumped on his knees, his body shaking as both of his arms hung limply at his sides. She glanced at him once before turning on her heel and approaching Arobynn again, her face betraying nothing.

 _Good_ , he said, _but you hesitated_. Arobynn bent down and reached for her left hand, his calloused fingers gently caressing her knuckles. _You can never hesitate,_ he chided, _hesitation could mean the difference between life,_ he twists her wrist painfully, _and death._ He breaks it. 

Celaena hears her wrist snap in two and feels part of herself fade away, fade into the shadows, so she doesn’t feel the pain, doesn’t feel the sharp sting of betrayal as her master releases her hand and looks at her in disappointment. 

_The next time I tell you to do something you will do it_ , he says, _and you will not hesitate_. 

_Yes, master_ , she says. 

“Celaena?” She feels gentle fingers on her elbow and her eyes snap up to stare at Nehemia, who’s looking at her with concern. “Are you alright?”

Celaena closed her eyes, focused her senses on her surroundings, on her breathing, on the feeling of the table beneath her fingers. She focused on the smell, the scent of cardamom and washed linens filling her nose, and let the memory fade away slowly. 

It was amazing really, how Arobynn Hamel managed to haunt her even when she was miles away from him. How he still petrified her, even though she was an adult now, how he still had hold of her.

Sometimes she wondered if she would ever be free of him.

“Celaena,” Nehemia’s voice was more firm now, and her hand was a warm comforting weight on her arm, anchoring her to the present. “Please, talk to me.”

“I’m fine,” Celaena stated, her voice empty. 

“Are you sure-”

“ _Yes_.” Celaena said, the word hissing out of her mouth, harsh and unexpected. “Let’s just finish this lesson so we can break these fucking wards and be done with it.”

Nehemia gazed at Celaena silently, an odd mixture of concern and confusion warring in her almond eyes. She wanted to say something, to ask Celaena what she saw, or did she want to comfort her? There was something else too, a small spark of something that Celaena knew all too well. And she was terrified of what it could mean.

“Is it hard for you? To not be able to use your magic?” The question caught Celaena off-guard, especially since she was waiting for Nehemia to ask her something else.

“It’s… uncomfortable,” Celaena said slowly. “It’s like i’m being boxed in.”

Nehemia cocked her head to the side, her gaze was still concerned but now there was a note of curiosity in her brown eyes. Celaena shifted slightly in her seat, for once not knowing what to do with the attention. “It’s energy,” Celaena finally said looking at the Princess. “It’s a lot of energy swirling around inside me, but I can’t let it out like I usually can.” She scratched the back of her neck. “It feels like having a blocked nose.”

Celaena didn’t have the words to explain her frustration to Nehemia. She didn’t know how to convey the sense of loss she felt every time she tried to call to the shadows, only to find that she couldn’t reach them. Her magic warred inside her, begging for release, and Celaena couldn’t let it out, not until these wards were down. 

There was a moment of silence, and Nehemia’s face was completely unreadable. Then the Princess burst out laughing. Celaena’s eyes widened in shock as Nehemia, serious and dedicated Nehemia, bent over herself as she giggled in her chair, and it only worsened when Nehemia caught the dumbfounded look on Celaena’s face.

“Did you just compare your inability to use magic,” the Princess wiped at the corners of her eyes, her smile wide. “To having a common cold?”

“I-yes?” Celaena said perplexed. 

Nehemia only started to laugh again and Celaena could only stare back incredulously.

~

The sound of metal clashing filled the air as Chaol knocked Dorian’s latest strike away with the edge of his blade.

The Captain bounced on the balls of his feet, sweat beading on his forehead, as the Crown Prince hefted his rapier. Chaol saw the twitch of Dorian’s fingers on his sword hilt and he immediately knew he was going to feint left and go for a stab. Then Dorian struck and Chaol sidestepped the attack and smacked the Prince in the back of his head with the butt of his sword.The Prince grunted, stumbled forward a few steps, then turned around and glared at Chaol.

They were in the training barracks where Chaol and his guards spent their time when they were off-duty. Today it was particularly empty, with only a few other guards occupying the space. Luckily, they were out of earshot.

“That was rude,” he huffed, rubbing the back of his head.

“Then maybe you should be smarter about the moves you make,” Chaol countered, going down into a fighting stance, ready for the next match; but Dorian only sighed, his sword hanging at his side.

“You’re still mad at me, aren’t you?” he asked, his voice tentative and a little cautious.

“I can’t imagine what would give you that idea,” Chaol said, his voice flat, sarcasm practically dripping off every word.

Dorian had, with Celaena’s prompting, revealed to the Princess Nehemia his plans for the King and in turn the Princess revealed her connection to the rebellion stirring within the empire. Chaol understood why Dorian made his choice, but it was an insane risk to take, especially since Dorian barely knew the Princess or her ultimate goal.

“Chaol-”

“Just what exactly were you thinking, Dorian?” Chaol hissed, his frustrated voice reverberating across the practice room. “Because you met the Princess only a few days ago, and suddenly she’s trustworthy because an _assassin_ says so? That was beyond reckless.”

The Prince bristled, his cobalt eyes darkening. “It was a risk and I took it.”

“But you didn’t _think_.” Chaol snarled, “you didn’t think about any potential consequences. About whether it could’ve been a trap, or a trick. Whether the Princess is a spy for your father, or what if Celaena is? Did you ever think of that?”

“Celaena is on our side so long as I pay her,” the Prince said, an edge of bitterness entering his voice. “And Nehemia is not a spy Chaol.”

“ _How do you know that?_ ” Chaol snapped. 

Dorian stared incredulously at his friend, the friend he’d had as long as he could remember, and gaped at his hostility. Immediately, Chaol wished he could take back that tone of voice - there were very few times the two of them even fought with each other, especially like this, with Chaol shouting at the Prince in genuine anger. 

A hurt look crossed Dorian’s face and Chaol felt a twinge of regret. He felt terrible about snapping at Dorian, about shouting at him when his intentions were in the right place, it was what he loved most about Dorian, but he never thought of his own well-being first. Never once took into account how his selflessness could hurt him in the long run, how it could be used against him. 

Then Dorian’s eyes narrowed and matched the aggression in the room with his own. “Why the fuck would a Princess of Eyllwe decide to work for the bastard that butchered her kingdom?” he accused, tossing his rapier to the floor. The regret settling in his bones instantly dissipated as Chaol’s anger rose and met the Prince’s head on.

“You won’t be saying that when she sells us out to your father,” he countered. “And Celaena?” he added, sheathing his own blade. “All it would take is for someone to give her a larger offer and we’re as good as dead. She’s an _assassin_ , Dorian. She owes allegiance to no one but herself.”

Dorian scowled, not willing to accept that possibility, and glanced towards the doors and the other guards training at the other end of the room. Chaol pursed his lips, hoping that they hadn’t been too loud as to inform the other occupants of their conspiracy.

“What am I supposed to do then?” Dorian hissed, striding towards his friend and pulling him over to the nearest wall where they could speak in private. “What am I supposed to do about Celaena and Nehemia, hmm? I can’t kill my father without them.”

Chaol sighed and leaned against the wall, pressing his head against the cold stone. Finally he turned his head and regarded Dorian, his sapphire eyes were hard like ice chips and Chaol wondered distantly if someone could get lost in there. “Have you thought about…” Chaol took a breath. “Have you thought about ending this? Ending this infernal plan? I think things would be a lot simpler if we just dropped it.”

Chaol regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, and he could see the surprise and shock raising Dorian’s eyebrows and turning his eyes into saucers.

“Chaol…” the Prince breathed, dumbfounded. “How could you- how could you even suggest that?” His face twisted, disgust and confusion drawing his brows together. “There are people out there are dying unjust deaths. People are being thrown in prison and forced into labour camps simply because they were caught in a war they didn’t want to fight. Families ripped apart because one, if not all, possess magic and they are bound and hanged in iron until their bodies give out. Children dying in slums because the rich are using up all the resources and hoarding them for themselves. How can I turn away from _that_ , Chaol? How could you possibly think I’ll abandon this quest when there is suffering?”

“The other countries are not your responsibility,” Chaol hissed, “they are not your people.”

“Maybe they aren’t,” Dorian said crossing his arms, “but I have a responsibility to help them. To end this war. Why would I abandon them when I could do something?”

Chaol was silent. He pushed off the wall and walked further into the hall, running his hands through his short-cut hair. Everything about Dorian’s words pained him, but Chaol was acting selfishly.

“Answer me,” Dorian said, more stern this time. 

Blowing out a breath, Chaol straightened and looked the Prince in the eye as he said his next words. “I’m worried about you, Dorian,” he whispered, just loud enough for Dorian to hear. “I’m worried about what’s going to happen to you when this is all over, how everyone will react to you ascending the throne. I’m worried that the people will know it was you who killed the King, and start rebelling. I’m worried about the council conspiring against you,” he expressed, pouring out his inner most fears. “I…” His heart fluttered and he took a breath. “Gods damn it, Dorian, I care about you too much to see you hurt.”

He was met by silence.

He looked away and stared at the wall. He was selfish, that’s what he was. Ready to sacrifice the good of his kingdom for his best friend, for one man, and Chaol knew that the well-being of so many people was worth more than the Prince’s life, especially if that man was willing to risk it all for everyone’s sakes. But that one life was Dorian, and there would never be anyone else like him.

Dorian who preferred pistachio over rosewater macarons, who spent saturday afternoons racing his hounds, who holed up in his room for hours on end reading, who fenced as fiercely as he loved. How could he be okay with Dorian putting his own life on the line? How could he ever forgive himself if something happened to him?

Chaol clenched his jaw and turned back to the Prince, waiting for the slap of rejection, waiting for Dorian to snarl at him and storm off. Chaol couldn’t tell what Dorian was thinking - it was a weighty confession, he must have been thinking _something_.

And then Dorian did the unexpected. He reached out and put his arms around him. It was a long embrace, with Dorian’s arms squeezing him tightly, and Chaol’s frantic heart rate seemed to slow as he felt the gentle pressure of Dorian’s hands on his shoulder blades.

“We will figure this out,” Dorian breathed into Chaol’s shoulder. “However this ends, we’ll work it out. Together.” Chaol nodded, and took solace in the Prince’s words, suspecting that he wasn’t just referring to their conspiracy against his father.

The moment they broke apart there was a loud crash as the far end of the room. Dorian and Chaol turned and saw Ress, one of Chaol’s men, leaning heavily against the large wooden doors he just threw open. He looked frazzled, and very very scared. The other men in the room gripped his shoulders and started asking him what was wrong, why he looked so alarmed. Chaol’s eyes narrowed as he strode over to Ress and the other swordsmen, his expression concerned.

“Ress? What’s happened?” He asked, his voice firm but gentle as he laid a hand on Ress’s shoulder.

“The King…” he whispered, Chaol noticed that there was sweat running down his face and neck; he must have sprinted across the palace to get here as soon as he could. “The King has discovered a traitor in his council.”

The other soldiers immediately started talking amongst themselves, confusion and shock coloring their voices as they clamored for more information. Chaol held up a hand and the arguing fell silent.

“What else is it, Ress? Why did you run here?” he asked slowly.

Ress swallowed, his expression panicked, “He’s ordered that Adrien Bernard be executed.”

Chaol frowned, “When is it taking place?” Ress took a deep breath, met Chaol’s eyes, and his next words made Chaol’s blood run cold.

“He’s ordered that the execution start right now, Sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And Elide joins the scene! But on another note, sorry guys neither of us planned on taking so long to post this chapter, it shouldve been up awhile ago but life got in the way. 
> 
> Anyways it you have questions or want to scream at us on tumblr hit us up @shadehunters and @ryzaphelle


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check the end for notes

If there was one thing Elide Lochan was sure of, it was that she hated cleaning. Her days were filled with soap suds and unidentifiable stains, every minute a new smudge that refused to come out. Some days were spent in the kitchens, toiling over the sink as the basin was filled with dish after dish. Other days she would be found with the maids scrubbing dirty underwear and grimacing at bed sheets with strange scents.

Wherever her uncle decided to throw her that day, she would stay for hours until her fingers were pruned and her skin was rubbed raw. Today she was with the launderettes; kneeling before a large barrel full of clothes, a rack held in one hand, and a shirt in the other. Her muscles were tired and her back was sore from all the up-and-down motions she made with the shirt against the rack - still this stain refused to lift.

After five more minutes she decided to stop, her arms throbbing. She scowled at the grey smudge and thought, _You win this time_. The launderettes got a lot of those - the grey stains - dried blood from the seemingly endless amount of brawls the witches upstairs got into. She hated the witches for that, hated them for bleeding so much over their clothes. Elide was so bored from the sight of blue/grey blood that she had welcomed her period when it came last week - needless to say she soon got over that spectacle not two hours later when she was cleaning out her _own_ blood.

“Miss Lochan,” a voice boomed from behind her, and Elide rolled her eyes before turning to see a pointy nosed woman stood with her hands on her hips. Sybil was essentially Elide’s overseer, the woman whom Vernon paid extra just to make Elide’s workday worse. She was tall, and skinny, with long blonde hair tied severely into a braid on the nape of her neck, and a sneer set permanently into her face. 

She looked down her nose at Elide as she continued to leer, “What have I told you about slacking off-”

“I’m just resting for a moment. I’ve been at this stain for-” Elide tried to explain.

“Don’t talk back to me,” Sybil spat back. “I’ve had enough of your lazy behaviour.” Her sneer softened only to turn into a vile smirk. “How to punish you,” she mused. This was always the way; Sybil would find the smallest things to nitpick then find some way for Elide to “make up” for it. It was usually extra linens to wash or less soap to clean with. 

But what came from Sybil’s mouth was the most terrifying punishment yet. “The usual maid who collects the hampers upstairs had an... _unfortunate_...accident…”

In other words, she was dead.

Elide resisted the urge to gape.

“None of the other launderettes have volunteered to take her place,” Sybil continued and Elide gulped, knowing where this was going. “So would you be so kind as to fulfil her duties?”

Elide knew it wasn’t a question and didn’t treat it as such, simply bowing her head in silent submission. She hated it; being bossed around and having her life made into a living hell. But it had to be done, unless she wanted to be starved and deprived of sleep. She knew that her life could have been a lot worse, she spent every day wishing for the next.

As much as she hated the witches for all their bloody washing, she thought of the now-dead maid and shuddered. She could only be confident in the fact that her uncle didn’t want her dead _yet_.

~

Elide took a deep breath, trying to calm her breathing. Her erratic inhales were both out of anxiety and exhaustion since she’d be climbing back and forth between the witches rooms and the launderettes’. Like an idiot, she’d decided to start from the highest rooms and work her way down, gradually making her work load easier. But she sorely regretted that decision after the first trek thanks to her ankle.

Now she inhaled and exhaled away her pain as she lifted her fisted hand to knock against the door. “Laundry!” she called and, after a minute without a reply, let herself into the room. Sybil had given her a set of keys that could be used to enter any room, even though all Elide wanted to do when up against a locked room was to run away. Elide firmly believed that there could be nothing good behind a locked door.

Even so, she pushed into this room and let her eyes start to scan her surroundings. There was no sign of any movement which doubly confirmed for Elide that this room was empty. So far, she hadn’t encountered any of the witches, and she thanked whatever god that was watching over her for that. She assumed that they were all off training or brawling or eating or whatever witches did when they weren’t sleeping.

This room in particular was fairly lavish with silky blacks and lush reds. A large bed took up most of the space, as most rooms had, but surprisingly this one stood neatly and tidily with its delicately placed pillows and squarely folded coverlet. Elide wondered if the owner of this room had an eye for interiors or if they barely slept in that bed at all.

In contrast, the floor was littered with clothes and armour. This room wasn’t exactly lived in, it was more so a storage room, a place to exist, like the owner could barely stand this place. Deciding that this thought in no way lightened her workload, Elide set to it, throwing down the sack from her shoulder to the floor and scouring the room for fabrics in need of washing.  
Five minutes later, Elide’s sack was full of dirty laundry and she still wasn’t finished. She’d placed the leftover armour on a towel on the bed for the owner to clean themselves later, and she continued to hobble around the room picking up dirty socks and gods knew what else. 

Dropping to her knees, she reached under the bed to gather the dirty fabrics from underneath. When she rose again, her heart stopped.

Who she saw may have been regarded as otherworldly; pale skin with even paler hair the colour of silver, narrow eyes with irises of burnished gold, broad shoulders that led into an athletic body and muscular limbs. The newcomer wore black armour that overlapped like scales on a reptile and her shoulders were adorned by a scarlet cloak. She wore it all well, as if she was born and bred to wear that armour.

Of course she was, Elide thought to herself, _she’s a Ironteeth witch_.

The witch smiled - her teeth a dull silver - and Elide forgot how to breathe.

~

Manon cocked her head, her iron teeth on display, as she regarded the human girl standing in the middle of her bedroom.

She was pretty- Manon could admit- with a spattering of freckles across her nose, sleek dark hair, and peculiar gray eyes that glinted like polished steel. She was dressed in a roughspun dress and apron, and there was a full sack of laundry clenched in her hands. It was fairly obvious that she was collecting her dirty clothes for washing, but Manon had never seen her before.

And she wasn’t a fan of strange girls waltzing around in her room.

“Who, exactly, are you?” She asked, stepping through the doorway.

The girl swallowed hard, taking a stilted step backwards. “I-my name is Elide,” she said, a slight hitch in her voice. “I’m here for the laundry.”

Manon took another step forward. “Where’s the other girl.”

“What?” Elide took another step back, and Manon heard the clink of chainlinks. Her eyes narrowed.

“The other girl,” she growled, “the one who does the laundry. Where is she?”

“I-well, she-” Elide took another step back, her ankle knocked into the side of a bedpost, and Manon lashed out, her fingers wrapping around the girl neck in seconds.

“I will not have spies snooping around my quarters.” Manon hissed, her iron nails sliding out of the slits on her fingers. Elide whimpered as the metal bit into her skin.

“I’m-I’m not a spy,” she gasped, her hands gripping Manon’s wrist. “I was sent up here by my overseer, the other girl died yesterday-”

“How convenient,” Manon gripped her neck harder, and Elide’s chest heaved with effort. She smelled the girl’s blood, trickling onto her fingers, and the smell was intoxicating.

And strangely familiar. Familiar and… odd.

Manon frowned.

“Who are you?” she hissed, staring into frightened gray eyes. Elide’s pulse hammered in her throat and her mouth opened and closed, groping for an answer but coming up with none.

Manon searched the girl's eyes; looking for the deception, the crack in the mask that would prove her right, but she found none. Instead she saw fear, and- fascination? Curiosity? Manon did not know, but this girl- for whatever reason- was not paralyzed at the sight of Manon. 

Strange- but not something that made her any more interesting than all the other humans here.

Slowly, Manon released her neck, and Elide gasped and slumped, her hands flying up to grasp at her throat. 

“If this is your position now, then so be it.” Manon decided, taking a step back, “but if I ever find you snooping around,” and she paused then, to drive her point home. “I will rip your heart out, and have it for an evening snack.” 

Elide seemed to pale further, and instead of saying anything nodded furiously. Manon jerked her head towards the door and Elide got the message; she hoisted the bag of laundry over he shoulder and stumbled out of the room as fast as she could.

Manon watched her go, unaffected by her quick departure. Then she brought her hand up to her mouth, and tasted the blood coating her fingers. She paused then, her eyes widening incredulously as she whirled back to the open doorway. Manon remembered the look of the kitchen girl’s eyes, the taste of her blood, and felt surprise stir low in her gut. 

A normal kitchen girl was not worth keeping an eye on, but perhaps a young witchling was.

~

Nehemia and Celaena were ushered into a large council room under the palace by a three guards, other nobles already sitting in the pews lining the chamber.

The two women were still studying Wyrdmarks in Nehemia’s room when there were three harsh knocks on her bedroom door. 

“The King asks for your presence in the judgement hall right now,” a gruff voice called out. “It is an urgent matter.”

Nehemia felt her blood run cold, her entire body freezing in fear. Had the King discovered her treachery? Had he uncovered her conspiracy with Dorian? Even worse, had he realized that she was leading the rebellion against him? All possibilities. 

The Princess straightened, and rose from her seat at the table. Celaena seemed to have frozen in place, her eyes tracking Nehemia intently as she made her way towards it. She opened it and the three guards standing there bowed to the Princess, their backs stiff. 

“The King is requesting that all available nobility currently residing in the palace attend the trial of Adrien Bernard,” the guard said, “your Highness and Lady Safyr are to follow us.”

Nehemia breathed in and out as she processed the information, making sure to look as confused as possible. They had discovered Adrien? And if they had discovered him than how long would it take them to track his contact in Terrasen? How long before her plans were discovered? 

“I do not understand,” she said, speaking in her heavy and fake Ellywe accent. The guard in front sighed in exasperation as the other two guards behind him started debating with each other. 

“No need to argue, gentleman,” Celaena chirped, slipping into her fake persona. “I’m a fairly capable translator after all.” She winked, and the younger guard blushed scarlet. Nehemia resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

As they walked down the hall Celaena and Nehemia only spoke in Ellywe; she pretended to explain the situation, talking animatedly with her hands and smiling her fake smile, all the while telling Nehemia her plan for tonight. What equipment they would need, what route through the palace they’d take, where they would place the marks. It was a bit overwhelming, even for someone like Nehemia, but she steeled her spine and hummed her agreement to Celaena's plans. 

The Princess soon found their small party descending down a long flight of stairs into a dark and dimly lit hallway. Nehemia suspected that they were either in or near the palace dungeons. 

“Are all trials in Adarlan like this?” Nehemia finally asked Celaena, her words echoing off the stone walls. 

Celaena shook her head, her face a perfect mask of confusion and worry as they walked through the old stone hallways. For a split second Nehemia almost believed she was the naive girl she was pretending to be. Almost. 

“No,” she said, “this is something else.” Celaena’s turquoise eyes were shifting, gazing at every wall, and every sconce, looking for exits or anything she could use as a weapon. Ever the assassin. 

The five of them stopped in front of a pair of double doors made of polished dark wood. The two guards in front pulled the doors open and as soon as the room beyond was revealed Nehemia felt her mouth go dry. The Hall itself was impressive, but also incredibly foreboding; as soon as Nehemia stepped into the large chamber her shoulders tensed reflexively. 

The floor was checkered black and white marble, and there were rows of seats on both the left and right sides of the room. Large red banners hung from the ceiling with massive gold wyverns sewn on the front, and beneath them was a dark throne where the King sat in all his glory. Council members sat to the King’s right and to his left, all of them whispering animatedly amongst themselves. Nehemia spotted Dorian to the King's left; he looked disheveled and tense, as if he had only just threw on his indigo tunic and run a hand through his dark hair before coming to the chamber. Nehemia locked eyes with him briefly before being pointed towards her own seat near the right of the room.

And then sighed internally when she found that her seat was positioned right next to Kaltain Rompier.

There was nothing wrong with Lady Rompier so to speak; she was pretty, had perfect manners, and spoke with an elegance no one else in the court seemed to possess, but she, like every other person in Adarlans court, condescended to her and treated her almost like a child. As if Nehemia was not a Princess in her own right. It was maddening. 

But she had to remind herself not to lose her temper because, after all, she _wanted_ to be underestimated. It made her job that much easier. 

Kaltain spotted them and smiled tightly, her shoulders tense. “Hello Princess,” she bowed her head slightly at Nehemia and acknowledged Celaena with a curt nod “Lady Safyr.”

She smiled at Kaltain and took her seat next to her, with Celaena to her left, and Kaltain immediately started talking about banal things; from the upcoming Solstice Ball to the weather to jousting tournaments, and Celaena effortlessly managed to keep track of all the things Kaltain was saying, and translated a few sentences for Nehemia. But none of what Lady Rompier was saying had to do with this foreboding chamber room. 

“Why are we here?” Nehemia asked in her fake accent. “Is this a celebration?”

Kaltain gave a tinkling laugh that didn’t reach her eyes and responded to the Princess, “No, the King has asked all the nobility to attend this trial,” then Kaltain leaned toward them both conspiratorially, “rumor has it that Adrien will be executed.”

Just then another set of wooden doors groaned open and four armed guards marched in; the black of their uniforms matching the tiles and the heels of their boots clicking on the marble. Two of them carried an injured young man between them; his clothes were fine but his boots and pants were dirty and his white linen shirt was torn at the collar and stained with droplets of blood. He had feathery white blonde hair and sky gray eyes, one of which was swollen and bruised, his nose was red and clearly broken, and his bottom lip was cut and still bleeding. 

Clearly the guards hadn’t wasted any time with the beatings.

Nehemia swallowed and pretended to ask Celaena for clarification in Ellywe, but really she wanted to know the quickest way out of this chamber room.

Nehemia hated executions, ever since she was a little girl she hated seeing people chained up then ceremoniously murdered in front of a large crowd. In Ellywe when criminals needed to die they were given a date for a duel; they would choose one of the palace champions and duel them to the death. Depending on the severity of the crime, criminals would fight one or two of the Kings greatest soldiers, merely called The Lions. They would be taken to a dueling ring in the middle of Ellywe’s capital, Banjali, and given a khopesh to fight with; the idea was that if they won, they would go free. 

Which was why they usually lost.

People usually came to watch the duel, but it was not a sporting event; the audience who watched was silent, letting the sound of clashing metal fill the air. Because when a duel was ordered it was a sad occasion; a person had committed such a heinous act that they had to face their death head on, not wait for peaceful departure from this world. It was sad and it was shameful, which was why such events were uncommon. 

As the Princess Nehemia had overseen several duels, and watched as a murderer, two abusers, and a rapist all meet their end at the hand of one of The Lions. It wasn't a perfect system, she knew that, but at least men and women would fight and die on their feet with a khopesh in their hands, not tied down like animals. 

And when she saw the guards chain Adrien Benard to the checkered floor with heavy iron manacles, she felt the bile rise in her throat. 

“Adrien Bernard,” the King rumbled, “you have been found possessing and trading sensitive information that pertains to Adarlan’s Crown and the council to rebel forces. Do you deny this claim?”

Nehemia bit the inside of her cheek, and tried to look confused by what was happening. But Adrien was contacting rebels, her rebels, which meant that he knew Ren. Ren, her captain in the north, who had sent her a secret missive while she was still with her family, informing her that he had contacts within the palace and would use them to keep the rebels informed, but she hadn’t realized that his contact was part of Adarlans Court. She quite literally saw him every day, charming the Queen at her garden parties and flirting with courtesans, and he had somehow been discovered as a rebel conspirator.

A sense of dread bubbled up inside her as Adrien groaned and looked up at the King; his was tired and beaten, but his gaze was steady on the King. Then he smirked and said “what kind of sensitive information? Like what whore Lord Miral is having an affair with now?” He snickered at his own joke and the guard behind him stepped forward, and punched him in the face. 

The sound of a fist hitting flesh echoed through the room, and Adrien spat out a mouthful of blood onto the marble floor.

“I asked you a question,” the King growled, his expression stony, “you would do well to answer it.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” Adrien said lifting his head, “why don’t I tell everyone here how much of a hypocrite you are? How you use wild mag-” 

The guard stepped forward again and delivered another punch to Adrien’s face; the young man slumped to the side, his breaths shallow as the bruising on his face became more prominent.

There was a sound then, a sort of yelp, and Nehemia turned her head and spotted a man among the King’s council. He had an older face, but his eyes were the same shade of gray as Adrien's, and Nehemia guessed that was General Bernard. 

“You are trying my patience boy,” the King snarled, his large hands gripping the arms of his chair with white knuckles. “Do you admit to colluding with rebel forces?”

As Adrien lifted his head, he straightened his back, and gazed at the King, unapologetic and smiling. “I don’t regret what I did.” His voice filled the room and the heavy silence that had previously occupied it. “You murdered my cousins and sister for having magic. I haven’t forgotten.”

He took a shaky breath and met the King’s stare head on, “I know you will not spare my life. So stop this farce of a trial and just kill me already.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from Lord Bernard, his eyes full of pain as he clenched the arm of a man beside him. Adrien smiled at him once before turning back to the King, matching his cold stare with his fiery one.

Finally the King sat back in his throne, and then he smiled, his lips curling into a cold sneer and his obsidian eyes dancing with mirth. 

“That can be arranged young Bernard.” The King motioned with the first two fingers of his left hand. 

Celaena sucked in a sharp breath and before Nehemia could react something whizzed through the air. There was a wet thunk and Adrien's eyes widened as he looked down at the large crossbow bolt sticking out of his sternum. 

Blood started to pool around the shaft of the bolt, slowly spreading out against his white shirt. He looked up once at his father before his body collapsed forward onto the floor, blood slowly spreading out from hole in his chest. 

People started shouting immediately; lords and ladies gesticulating wildly and yelling at each other, council members arguing amongst each other. There was the clattering of chairs and Nehemia was certain several people just fainted. She looked towards the King and saw Dorian; he sat pale and rigid in his high backed chair, his fingers fisted in the fabric of his dark pants as he gazed at Adrien's dead body. 

Nehemia felt something unravel slowly inside her and suddenly she just wanted to go back to Ellywe, curl in her parents arms and hear them tell her everything was going to be okay. She felt unsteady, teetering on the edge of something awful with nothing to hold her back from falling. 

She started breathing hard as she stared at the body in front of her; he had been an ally, someone who worked for her cause. And she didn’t protect him. He was dead because she hadn't been paying enough attention, and regret began to churn low in her belly. 

Then there was a light touch on her hand; she looked down and saw Celaena’s fingers light resting on her left hand. The ringing in her head seemed to dull a little as she focused on Celaena's fingers and slowly, ever so slowly, she turned her hand over and curled her hand around Celaena's own. 

And in that moment it felt like the only thing tethering her to reality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nehemia will have POVs in later chapters because in this fic she's gonna be a main character, not a minor character. And from here on out the stakes are gonna get even higher. 
> 
> Anyways leave a comment or kudos if ur so inclined!


	16. Chapter 16

Lysandra oftentimes regretted getting up in the morning. Partly because she liked to doze in her bed as the afternoon began, feeling the sunlight on her skin and warmth of her bed, but also because as soon as she woke up she knew that the day held for her. More posturing, more flirting, more sex, more payment, and more false promises of marriage. 

Waking up meant putting on her make up, her mask, and pretending to be somebody else for other people to enjoy. It meant being Lysandra Ayris the voluptuous courtesan; just being Lysandra wasn’t good enough. Clarisse made that very clear.

She groaned as she stretched her limbs, her body still half asleep. Clarisse had already banged on each of the doors at the House, which meant Lysandra had to hurry and get ready. She yawned again before padding over to her vanity and picking up her hair brush. She brushed out the knots in her chestnut hair and proceeded to braid it into a bun at the back of her head. Then there was the matter of her makeup; a stroke of black around her eye, some blush around her cheeks, and rouge for her lips. When she was done the face of beautiful woman, a courtesan, stared back at her.

It was a nice face, her face, and yet it also wasn’t.

Lysandra learned early on in her childhood that people were more inclined to hand out money and favors to pretty little girls who were charming and sincere, and she also realized that it was easier to pick pockets when you took the shape of a bird or a stray dog. When she learned how to shift, to change her shape and her features, it became another tool for survival, a way to make ends meet for her poor mother.

But her mother feared and hated her powers, and cursed her father's name (whoever he might have been) for making her this way. For making her inhuman. _Yishani,_ her mother would call her, _trickster_. People like her mother from the Southern Continent were generally fearful of shapeshifters because they had a long history of espionage and assassination. Meeting a shapeshifter was a bad omen, but giving birth to, and raising one? Her mother considered it a curse.

 _If I am cursed,_ she thought, _than at least I’ll look beautiful being so._

Carefully, she slid on the red dress she had set out yesterday, pulled on her silk shoes, and made her way out of her living quarters and into the house courtyard.

The way that Clarisse liked to reel in customers was by parading her courtesans around Redwood House, her ostentatious estate located just outside the Withering District. Gentleman and ladies would be invited from all over Rifthold to spend time at the estate and take a look at the courtesans who were in Clarisse’s employ. They’d meander about with champagne in their hands, and cock their heads in interest at the various men and woman at the House. If they liked them, they would buy their services for the night. So the courtesans would flirt, act charming, and garner interest and win over customers, because that’s what they were there for in the first place. Nothing more, nothing less.

To the customers, this was fun and easy, a chance to have fantastic sex with beautiful people. It was just another game to them, a trivial pursuit that would satisfy them for a few days. But to Lysandra, and everyone else at the House, it wasn’t a game, it was the only way to survive.

Clarisse wanted them to make as much money as possible, to charm and beguile, and pull as much coin out of purses as they could. If they could not perform than they were either beaten or thrown out onto the street, with their debts to Clarisse still intact. They could never leave willingly unless they paid their Mistress the exact amount of coin she was owed for their education as courtesans. _Each person under my employ is an investment,_ Clarisse would say, _and I intend to collect every penny that’s owed to me._

And Lysandra felt the weight of that knowledge every day, especially today, as she smiled and simpered at the guests in Clarisse’s courtyard. 

The man she was talking to, some rich merchant, looked her up and down and gave her a charmed smile. “I think I like you Lysandra,” he said, “perhaps you’d like to join me for dinner tonight?” Lysandra didn’t understand why these people bothered asking, she couldn’t exactly say no anyways, but he looked like a nice enough man, with dark hair and a round, kind face. 

So she grinned, flashing her white teeth, “I’d love too-”

“I’m sorry” a hand with red painted nails appeared on her shoulder and Lysandra resisted the urge to tense up. “But Miss Ayris is spoken for.”

The man frowned, “what do you mean Miss DuVency?”

“Unfortunately, Deacon, Lysandra has just recently entered into an exclusive contract with another customer.” Clarisse said smiling, “she’s only here for show, I’m afraid.”

Well, that was new.

“But I’m sure Miss Alana Renow would love to have dinner with you tonight.” Clarisse motioned towards a blonde courtesan a few feet away, who waved excitedly at the three of them. 

Deacon pouted for a bit at Lysandra before stepping away to talk to Alana, his shoulders slumping. But Lysandra wasn’t paying attention to him, she was focusing on Clarisse’s words and how they made her blood run cold.

“What do you mean exclusive contract?” She asked.

Clarisse inspected her nails thoughtfully, and if she was aware of Lysandra’s distress she didn’t acknowledge it. “I think you know what I mean Lysandra.”

“I never agreed to see Arobynn exclusively,” she said, clutching her champagne glass tighter.

Clarisse gave her an exasperated look. “You’re his favorite, Lysandra, and he wants to keep you to himself.” She brushed her red hair over her shoulder imperiously, “and he’s paying an outrageous sum to do it, so I agreed.”

“But I-”

“Enough complaining, it’s tiresome to listen to,” Clarisse said, her hard brown eyes levelled at Lysandra, and the courtesan closed her mouth. “He’s paying to have you all to himself and I can make the most money this way.” Then she added: “Besides, I don’t want Arobynn murdering any possible customers out of jealousy.”

Lysandra swallowed hard; she’d hoped that their occasional weekend trysts would be enough to sate the Guild Master but of course he would never be satisfied with something so easy. She hated seeing Arobynn, listening to his stories, pretending to fall for his charms, letting him touch her and use her when and where he wanted. She wanted nothing more than to run away from Rifthold and be free of Hamel for the rest of her life.

But how could she leave when Arobynn still had Celaena in his clutches?

“When do I see him?” she asked quietly, submissively. 

Clarisse smiled and patted her cheek good naturedly, that action made Lysandra feel sick. “There’s a good girl. You’ll see him tonight.” She turned away and motioned towards her guards, which meant Lysandra was dismissed. As she turned away Clarisse added: “Oh, and Lysandra?”

She turned back around as Clarisse started inspecting her nails again. “Make sure to please him.”

~

Nehemia was pacing, and it was only making Celaena antsier as the minutes ticked by.

After watching Adrien Bernard get shot in the chest, the two women had hurried back to Nehemia's rooms to get away from the crowd. In part because Celaena didn’t want to be bothered with the rest of the Adarlan Court; she had better things to worry about than the hysteria and panic of random aristocrats. But also because Nehemia looked ashen, and Celaena would rather not see the Princess of Ellywe be sick all over the floor of the execution room. 

And now she was sitting at the table, massaging her temples while Nehemia paced.

“He chained him up and then shot him!” Nehemia hissed, “Why would he do that? How could he stomach such a sight?”

“He kills people all the time, Princess, this was hardly surprising,” Celaena said matter-of-factly. Public executions were commonplace in Rifthold, especially after the King outlawed magic; men and women were hung in large groups in the town square, and the guards made sure that anyone outside was watching. It was a message to the masses, use magic and die or obey my command and live, and Adrien Bernard's execution was no different. It was a message to rebel sympathizers and, judging by the horror on the Council’s faces, it was heard loud and clear. 

“I am well aware of the King’s cruelty, _Cleo_ ,” Nehemia snapped, her nostrils flaring. “He chained him up like a dog and then slaughtered him. There was no humanity in that. No honor.” Her dark skin was flushed with anger, her almond eyes burning with resolve, and looking every bit the Princess she was. If Celaena weren’t who she was, she might’ve been intimidated.

Then she closed her eyes and blew out and exhaled, the tenseness in her shoulders dissipating with her breath. Slowly she straightened her back and opened her eyes, and Celaena was momentarily caught off-guard by the fiery resolve and determination burning there.

“Tonight,” she said, “we paint more marks. As many as we can, and we will do this every night until the Solstice Ball. It is time we make our move.”

Celaena's fingers curled involuntarily, her adrenaline making her blood hum at the idea. For a long time, too long, she had only been helping Dorian and Nehemia scheme and master their plan for the wards and the King, but now she could do something. 

For all the time she’s spent at the palace, she didn’t feel grateful for the opportunity to leech off its luxury; she felt closed off, like she was being held in a massive glass cage rather than the home of the royal family. And it didn’t help that she couldn’t access her magic here at all, that she was cut off from such an integral piece of herself. It was stifling and Celaena had a new respect for Dorian who spent all of his life trapped in this place.

She got to her feet and faced Nehemia, matching the Princess’s determination with her own. “When do we begin?”

~

The Prince prefered the tower room over the other bedrooms in the palace because he liked the peace and tranquility the tower brought. The palace corridors constantly echoed with the sounds of heavy footfalls and clattering plates and the Kings low voice but the tower sat suspended in air, it was the only one made completely of stone, and had no sound running through its halls save for the wind that wove its way between the window panes. He sat on the bench that was built next to his window, and listened to the sound of the air against the stone and the faint sloshing of the Avery River.

It was calming, it gave him room to think and to process, and after what happened in the trial chamber he needed to be alone.

He had seen his father kill others; was required to watch most executions ordered by the King as a way to show his support for the act, but most of the men and women he saw his father kill were people he didn’t know. They were random individuals who had somehow offended the King or were magic users, they had never been nobles, and they certainly hadn’t been sons of council members.

Dorian had known Adrien; they had played together as children, raced against his dogs in fields, and hunted game in Oakwald Forest as teenagers. They had never been particularly close but Dorian had known him, had talked to him and joked with him, and he, more than likely, would have made him a part of his own council once he assumed the throne.

Only a few hours ago, he had watched him get struck down by a crossbow bolt.

He clenched his fists in his lap as his eyes lost focus, the image of Rifthold blurring as his mind replayed the scene again and again. Adrien admitting to being a rebel spy, Adrien smiling at his father, the King ordering his death, blood pooling around Adrien's dead body while people screamed. 

Then there was the meeting that happened right after, where the King dropped all pretenses of calm and snarled at anyone foolish enough to cross him. He spent several minutes in the council room swearing and screaming at his council before he ordered his city guards to arrest any and all suspected rebel sympathizers throughout Rifthold. Dorian wasn’t certain if they would be executed, but judging by the Kings furious face, he assumed they would find out soon. Innocent people were going to die, and Dorian knew he had to act, or more people would suffer his father’s wrath.

He hoped Celaena and Nehemia would be able to pull this off.

~

She and Nehemia had spent the better part of the day cementing their plans for tonight and every night until the Solstice Ball, reworking and mastering their scheme until it was ironclad. The Princess was maddeningly thorough in her planning, and Celaena was impressed with her resourcefulness. She had a contingency plan for every possible way their plans could go wrong, and had divided up the palace into twelve different sections.

The idea was that they would finish marking a section each night until the Solstice Ball which was two weeks from now. Celaena was excited. For too long, she had felt confined in her own skin, her magic thrumming in her veins but having no way out, and the prospect of letting out all of this energy was a relief. As soon as Celaena had made it back to her own room, she had stripped out of her dress and pulled on her trousers, shirt, and leather armor. 

It was half-past eleven when Chaol strode into her room, her weapons clutched in his hands.

“Must you always barge in? What if I was naked?” Celaena said with a smile. Chaol simply scowled more.

“Here are your things.” He said, setting them on one of the upholstered chairs. “And after you’re done with them I want them-”

“In your office, yes, I know.” Celaena said, with the air of a person who had heard that speech more than once. She began to strap the blades to herself; the longer blades were fastened around her thighs, the shorter ones around her biceps, and her sabre clipped on her left side.

“Good.” Celaena turned to face the captain then and he looked serious, perhaps more serious than he ever had.

“Something you want to tell me?” She asked, her eyebrow inching up her forehead.

Chaol didn’t like her, that much he made explicitly clear and Celaena couldn’t exactly fault him for that; she was an assassin with a lot of blood on her hands and she was in constant contact with the Heir of Adarlan’s throne. Anyone sensible would be a little jittery about trusting her, but Chaol took it a step further. She knew he had her followed everywhere, that guards were stationed under her windows and outside her doors, and how he never wanted her alone with Dorian. Ever.

It was a nuisance if anything.

“I realize that Dorian needs your help with this plan of his. I’ve made my peace with that.”

“But?” Celaena prompted.

“But I don’t trust you. You’re a killer from the Withering District, and you put my Prince in danger.”

Celaena cocked her head to the side, “ _your_ prince?”

Chaol bristled, “ _The_ prince.” He growled, “you’re a threat to his very existence and I-”

“‘Won’t take my eyes off you for the duration of your stay at the palace.’ Is what you were going to say, right?” Celaena said impassively as she slid her sword out and inspected the blade, dusting it off with her sleeve. “You can feel however you want about me, captain, but the Prince is paying for my services and, since you don’t seem to understand, _I don’t get paid if he dies_.” She punctuated her point by sliding the blade of her sabre into the scabbard. “So if you could drop the postering, I could get my job done faster and leave.”

Chaol stared at her for a moment, his eyes swimming with anger and frustration. The thing about Chaol is that he was terrible at hiding his real feelings. There were times where the captain could passably keep his features neutral, but as soon as Dorian was involved Chaol dropped all pretenses, probably without meaning too, and was ready to do anything on the Prince’s behalf. It was almost romantic.

At last he blew out a breath and when he looked up at Celaena the anger had ebbed away, but determination had hardened his bronze eyes.

“If Dorian is hurt in any way at all, I want you to know that I will hold you accountable.”

Celaena didn’t bother answering, she just simply nodded then brushed past the captain, opened her door, and left him there in her bedroom.

~

Nehemia was waiting for her at the end of the hall; her dark cloak was pulled tight around her shoulders and her braided hair was tied in a tight bun at the back of her head. When she spotted Celaena she cocked a brow at her expectantly.

“You’re late.” She said simply. Celaena glowered at the Princess as she set off towards the east wing of the palace. “I thought assassins were supposed to be punctual?”

“I got held up by the Captain of the Guard.” Celaena whispered. She flattened herself against the wall and Nehemia followed suite just as two guards walked by, chatting to themselves in the quiet of the hallway. 

“The Captain had a talk with you?” Nehemia asked, “what would he have to say to you?”

“Oh, he just wanted to make it clear that I’m not welcome here, that I’m a danger to the Prince and the Kingdom, and that if he had it his way, I’d be in prison right now and all that.” She said with a wave of her hand as she and the Princess darted into the shadows between the pillars and columns of the hallway. 

“He really said all of that?” Celaena could picture Nehemia’s raised brows behind her and felt herself smile.

“Not in so many words, but the implication was there.” Celaena held out her hand and Nehemia stopped behind her. She flattened herself against the wall of the intersecting hallways and listened for any noises of guards, or wandering palace staff. When she heard nothing, she motioned for Nehemia to follow and they turned right into the massive entrance to the east entrance to the palace. It led into the palace grounds that held the race track, stables, kennels, and hunting range that Dorian used frequently. This is where they would start writing the wyrdmarks first. “You said we’ll need to mark the top of the doorway right?” 

“Yes,” Nehemia said, gazing up at the large wooden doors leading outside. “We start at the top and then mark the rest of this hallway.” Nehemia reached into her pocket and drew out a small vial filled with red liquid, when Celaena’s eyes fell on it she felt the bandaged wound on her arm throb in response.

During their meeting earlier, Nehemia had suggested that Celaena draw out some blood into a vial for their use later that night. Celaena had drawn back her sleeve and sliced a line into her forearm with Nehemia’s pen (the Princess had hated that). She had filled the tiny glass bottle with her blood until Nehemia had put a hand on her shoulder and told her it was enough. 

The Princess held the vial out to Celaena and she tucked the bottle into her belt, then proceeded to climb the nearest pillar up towards the the top of the arched doorway. She leapt to the small ledge lining the doorway and uncorked the vial; Celaena dipped her finger into her own blood and touched it to the wall in front of her, and began to draw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My god it's been far too long. Sorry guys, Rae and I didn't mean to leave this work for so long but she got swamped with a bunch of work and my life kind of imploded for a few months so it's been difficult getting back into things. But now that things have calmed down I think we might be able to get back into a better posting schedule and not every five months. Anyways we hope you liked it and if you're so inclined please leave a comment or kudos!


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